I AM SHERLOCKED
by CheesyJumpersandJam
Summary: Sherlock survives the fall, but will everyone else be so lucky? (Post-Reichenbach Fall, taking a much darker turn on what happened...)
1. Chapter 1

I AM SHERLOCKED

Chapter One:

This story begins with grief, desperation, and lastly, regret.

"Only permitted persons past this point, sir."

I stammered while digging around in my coat pocket for the card I had been given. My hands couldn't identify the card from whatever else I was carrying; possibly a handkerchief, probably my wallet, the hard and cold surface of my lighter, and a carton of cigarettes. Finally, I managed to brush my fingers against the glossy side of the security card and take it out of my collection of self-identity. Lately, I'd been associating myself more with my cigarettes than my wallet.

I flashed the flimsy thing at the man. The dim lighting of the fluorescent bulbs shone off the back of the card. It was at this point I noticed my hand was shaking. I willed my hold to still, but it was no use. He looked at it, merely a glance, and let me pass through. The building I had just been allowed into was notorious for its security and secrecy. It was a government building. A psych ward, really.

I fumbled afterwards, gathering my briefcase and trying to return the card to my pocket with admitted difficulty. I tried a nervous smile, even an awkward chuckle at my incompetence, but no one seemed amused. No one except my sorry self.

I was escorted further into the obscure building. It didn't have much to show for its reputation, but I suppose I wasn't the first to walk down that hallway-escorted, I mean. This was probably a common occurrence, with visiting family and friends. Even doctors. Surely, there was a reason even they had nothing to tell of these dark, and even dank, corridors of cement and closed off places.

Everything was exaggerated in this frightening institute. I heard no one but myself and the two men, following and leading, beside me. The sounds of our shoes echoed off the empty halls like we were the first signs of life in a long time.

I worried about the others here. I knew there were others. There had to be others. How was it to live in this place? What was it like to be confined to these plain and listening walls. Even to speak must sound like a gunshot in the world I had flashed a card in order to get in to.

I did not hear a word as we walked and walked. Further and further I was led into the heart of the abyss. My dread heightened the louder our footsteps became. I got the sense I was entering into a hollow place. The belly of a hungry beast. Only, it wasn't exactly the location that frightened me most.

"Right in here, sir."

Here meant an isolated room. There was no furniture, except for a metal chair bolted to the floor. Another chair was against the far opposite wall. Mirrors covered the entire surface of the four walls, and when I stepped into the room, I could see many of me standing there staring back, each with the look of trepidation I felt in my stomach. I swallowed with more effort than I'd liked to admit, and placed my briefcase down on the floor beside the twin, unbolted chair.

"Wait right here and don't move. I will warn you, if you move towards him, I cannot promise what will happen."

I looked up at the man, the moment that had haunted my thoughts nearly come opening my eyes wide. I felt my hands begin to tremble and I folded them over in front of me. My mouth went horribly dry and I couldn't recall a time I had felt more fearful for what came next. Not even in the war.

"Do you understand?"

I opened my mouth, lips parting and forming words that weren't even spoken. I closed my eyes, working my jaw and chewing the inside of my cheek like a madman. I reorganized my thoughts and sent a small force of air through my larynx to clear my throat of the horror that blocked it. "I understand," I opened my eyes.

I caught my own expression in the mirror as he turned to leave. My face was blanched completely and my pupils were pinheads in a sea of gray. Everything about my face was white; plain as day. Everything. My inability to take proper care of my facial hair with the gray shadow smothering my jaw; my inability to sleep with large bags under my eyes, each a blaring, fleshy red; my inability to calm myself with upturned brows even when I felt no way to correct them; my shaking hands were a glaringly obvious sign of my affliction; my unkempt clothes, wrinkled and messily done; my loss of appetite and the way the shadows cut into my cheek, more sharply than ever.

There was more, too. Far, much more. And all of it, every single thing, would be seen, examined, and known by _him _as soon as he stepped in through that door.

I thought about bolting. This door was not yet locked. I heard no confirmation of this. I could pack everything up and leave right now. It had been a valiant effort on my part, but this was far enough. I could just take the easy way out. There was honor in that still. Anyone who knew the things I did would agree with me on that. I wasn't here for me.

I was called here. It had not been on my own accord I came to this forsaken labyrinth of impending anxiety and apprehension. All this had been for someone else's request. But not just anyone's.

Mycroft's.

"He doesn't respond, and when he does, it's nothing coherent or intelligent at all. Whatever happened that day has left him completely changed. I'll never rightly admit he was stable before, but he certainly isn't now."

The date he was referring to was sometime in late fall. I can still remember the cold air turning my nose red and making my ears throb. My mind had been a whirlwind of confusion and nothing had made sense that day. That's what I remember most of all. None of it made sense. I had been everywhere and back again.

If only I had stayed.

I remember pulling up into the street, heart pounding all the way. I opened the door of the cab and put the phone to my ear. I remember thinking at that point that I could get inside the hospital and then it would all be done with. He'd be there, just as I had left him.

"Hello?"

"John…"

"Hey, Sherlock! You okay?" I had started running, hopes high. It's alright. Everything's going to be alright.

"Turn around, and walk back they way you came-"

"I'm coming in!"

"Just…! Just… do as I ask."

At the tone in his voice, I stopped. "_Please_." I was an idiot. I would do anything for him, and he had known it.

"Where?" I had asked. Where.

"There. Stop there."

"Sherlock.."

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

With my back turned to him, I finally turned to look up and see his figure standing there. I could barely see his face. "Oh god…"

"I...I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology…" He opened his mouth to speak again and I could already feel the dread mounting. "It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me… I...invented Moriarty.

The words hurt more than a bullet to the shoulder.

"Why are you saying this?"

He looked down at me. His voice sounded like he was in tears.

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock…"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly… in fact tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes…"

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up! The first time we met. The _first _time _we_ met, you knew all about my sister, huh?"

"Nobody could be that clever-"

"You could!" and he laughed. A pained laugh that still haunted me.

"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. Just a trick. It's just a magic trick."

"No! Holmes, Stop it now!"

"No! Stay exactly where you are! Don't move!" His voice had turned hostile. Demanding.

"All right," I put my hands in the air, a surrender. Why did I listen?

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?" He had his hand out as if he were holding me back himself. Is that possible?

"Do what?"

"This phone call...it's uh…" _shut up, Sherlock… Shut up… _"It's my note." Silence. "It's what people do, don't they?" More silence. "Leave a note…"

I knew the answer, but all I could do was just shake my head. "Leave a note when?" I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted to make absolutely certain. I wanted to hear Sherlock, the great consulting detective, say it.

"Good-bye, John."

"No, don't."

Sherlock threw the phone aside. He took his eyes off me and looked to the sky. He extended his hands out.

"SHERLOCK!"

"Well, what a surprise."

My eyes opened wide. I was sitting in the chair, my figure hunched over with my face buried in my hands. I could only see my shoes through the gaps of my fingers. I hadn't heard him come in. My thoughts about running had all but disappeared when I had begun to recall that fated day.

Only the recognizable baritone could bring me back from that.

I looked up and saw him sitting across from me. He was chained to the chair, both wrists and ankles strapped down tightly. His same mop of dark brown hair sat tousled and wild. His skin was sickly pale and his eyes were red and blood shot. His cheeks had sharpened from the stress he must have undergone, but it was him.

Sherlock.

The newest patient of the mental institute.

Mycroft's words came back to me.

"I'll never rightly admit he was stable before, but he certainly isn't now. John, you're the only one alive he may remember. The only one he might respond to." He had leaned closer to me at that moment, his eyes in genuine concern. "You were the last one to see Sherlock Holmes alive."

I looked in the familiar blue, but the bloody veins streaking across made it hard to remember exactly what they had looked like.

"I have a visitor," the baritone rumbled again.

I was searching for him. Underneath the grime and abused-look, there must be something hiding. Something I can recognize with who he was. But the grin he gave me was nothing short of disturbing; nothing less than what Moriarty what have done. I can see his dark eyes moving in the recesses of the blue, slashed with red. I can only see the madman as whomever sits across from me tilts his head like a viper in waiting.

I've been staring at him this entire time, but I can't find the words to say. I can feel him looking over every inch of me and isolating everything about me and storing him in that head of his.

My eyes lift from his eyes to the bandage wrapped around his forehead and I resist the urge to let tears slip past. My eyes have begun to water. Whether it's because I haven't been blinking or I suddenly feel a surge of painful memories flying back to me, I don't know. All I know is there is a man that looks like Sherlock smiling wickedly at me from across the room. There are reflections of him everywhere, but they all reflect something devious.

"Do you…" my voice was barely audible, and my throat was scratchy. "Do you remember me?" I crossed my arms in front of my chest, feeling more threatened than I had ever felt before. I breathed a small dose of courage through my nose, willing my senses to calm, feeling my heart begin to lapse into another episode of overloading emotions.

_Calm down. Calm down… _

"You? Remember you?"

A part of me hopes he doesn't. That would end any future meetings with this man. Yet, I'm holding my breath. I'm on the edge of my seat, my hands gripping tightly, wrapping myself in a constricting hold but it wasn't comforting enough. I'm doing everything I can not to run to him and shake his shoulders.

_It's me. It's John. You're old flat-mate? We used to solve crimes together. We used to laugh together. Do you remember? Laughing? _

"No."

My defense melted. My jaw was flexing and unflexing, holding back my tongue and tears. I closed my eyes, unable to look at this man any longer. I had begun to reach down to gather my briefcase when I stopped cold.

"But I remember a man by the name of John Hamish Watson."

My name. He remembers my name…

"You know me then. That's my name. You just said my name," words were flying out of my mouth faster than I could help it.

Sherlock remembers me! He remembers-

"No. I said I remember a man by the name of John Hamish Watson. You're not him. You're a shell of him. A shattered, broken piece of what once was Dr. Watson. You're nothing like he was. But that's a good thing, isn't it? John Watson was stupidity at its finest. He'd do everything I said without question. He wasn't a person, he was a dog-hungry to please its master. He'd do anything. If I had asked him to jump off that roof with me, I'm sure he would have. If I had asked him to come up and save me, oh, there's no question.

"I still remember his face when I told him my little ploy about being a fake-which is all true, of course. A loyal dog, betrayed by his own master. Yet, he still listened. I told him stay, and my, what a good boy he was. He _stayed_." Someone, using Sherlock's voice, laughed. A maniacal, diabolical, chilling laugh. It was too far gone to be considered healthy, but too genuine to be considered a lie.

I balled my fists, tears beginning to tear down my face and defense, torrents at a time. I had begun to take deep breaths, my hands pushing down against my sides. I was using every bit of strength I had not to get up from my chair and close the distance between that man and my fists.

"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up!"

The man leaned forwards, his bonds straining audibly against the force. "You still call for your master, don't you? I wonder. If I told you to stop crying, would you be able to? I'm sure you'd make every effort to. But see now, you're not John Watson. You're just his corpse, wandering listlessly without someone to give you direction. Is that why you've come crawling back? Only you could be so pathetic."

"I said shut up!" The chair slammed back against the wall, the mirror shattering where the chair had connected with it. The entire wall hadn't been compromised, but enough of it was damaged and broken that anyone who looked at it could see it wasn't just any regular mirror.

"Ah, so the dog does bark. But does it bite?" the man grinned. His eyes were latched on to mine like a deranged predator. "Seems we're being watched, pup. I hope the fact this will be on record won't be too embarrassing for you."

I grabbed the briefcase, thousands of emotions swelling in my head, my heart pounding in my ears. Yet, all I could hear was his hysterical laugh as I grabbed for the door, yanking and pulling with all my might but to no avail. They had locked it when Sherlock was brought in, and now I was at his total mercy.

"Open the goddamn door!" I screamed.

"I look forward to our next visit, Watson."

At the mention of my name, I risked a sideways glance in the maniac's direction, but instantly regretted it when we locked eyes and I lingered for a moment too long.

"Don't worry, you'll be back."

The door opened and I shoved my way into the hallway, saying nothing, just walking as fast as I could.

I was on the verge of more tears, but anger had found its way into my heart and dominated my actions. Anger and fear. Anger because he was right.

And fear, because he was so _goddamn _right.

As I stormed down the halls, brief-case in hand and the other shaking with tremors, I winced with each step. I found it difficult to walk. A shooting pain traveled its way up my entire body with each step. I staggered, limping towards the exit. I could nearly reach there. I was just past the security desk. The man said something to me, but I couldn't hear. The pain and the shock were coursing through me like the adrenaline, and I had to blink out the black that began to invade my vision, threatening me with the inevitability I was going to black out.

I took another step, and I felt my body crash to the ground. I heard something ringing in my ear, and I was suddenly back at that day. I was struggling to get up and people were crowding around me. I was trying to push them away, the ringing blanketing my thoughts and pain everywhere.

"No, he's my friend…"

"Stay down, it's all right-"

"No! He's my friend!"

"Somebody call the ambulance!"

"_Sherlock…"_

And I was enveloped in darkness.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I realize some of this, if not all, might be slightly Out of Character. I apologize in advance. Because there is no basis to really base this on, I can't predict what the characters might have done if in this situation. I appreciate you reading this and hope you enjoy! :] **


	2. Chapter 2

I AM SHERLOCKED

Chapter Two:

I was having a nightmare; people were pushing me, holding me to the ground and I was unable to get up. I kept wailing, protesting madly, but the words all came out slurred and messy. I couldn't understand a thing I said, but I knew exactly what I wanted to say. It was beyond frustrating, forming your lips to make the perfect sound, all your concentration poured into a simple task that you've been doing since birth, but all that resulted was gibberish.

"Sherlock!" I was struggling to shout, my mouth caught on the first syllable and my lips unable to move an inch. "No, you don't understand!" I meant to cry out, my hands waving frantically while the jumbled words struggled to make sense. "He's my friend! You don't understand!"

I felt as if a hand were clapped over my mouth, muffling my thoughts and handicapping my ability to perform the act of speech. Yet, I knew no hand existed. None of it existed.

That day had long since passed. No one was holding me down and Sherlock wasn't on the sidewalk. He wasn't… he wasn't bleeding to death with his head split open.

I get up on my knees, and out of pure desperation, I crawl my way to my fallen friend. My knees slam into the jutting uneven cobblestones and I felt new wounds beginning to settle in my bones, but I kept moving.

My mind was whirling a million miles per second, but I fight my way towards him. I weave through countless legs and things blocking my way; they never seem to end. _Why don't they end? _Until at last, I've risen to my feet, staggering the rest of the way, using my weight to push through everything that blocked my path as I kept uttering his name over and over again.

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

"_Oh god, Sherlock…" _

I saw the blood first. Then the brain matter. His body had fallen, crumpled behind a dumpster. His body was twisted in such an unnatural display, his eyes closed shut.

Blood. More blood. It kept pouring out of his head. _Oh god, Sherlock… _I saw someone coming towards me and I flinched at their hold on me.

"I'm a doctor! I'm a doctor! He's my friend!" I cried again, shaking my shoulders out of their hold and huddling close to the disfigured body that was once my best friend.

I was shocked. So immensely shocked. But my training took a hold of me and I immediately grabbed for his wrist, checking his pulse. He was still. He was so still. So cold.

The sirens of the ambulance were drowned by the murmurs of the crowd, but even that faded. I suddenly couldn't hear anything at all except more ringing. More horrid, terrible ringing. My heart slowed to pained and struggled beats, and I felt every single one bang against my rib cage. I swore it left a bruise that never healed.

I felt it even now.

I heard more monotonous tones. Each carved its way into my mind and, like nails against a chalkboard, jolted me awake. The single tone began to break apart into separate blips. Then, at last, they began to organize themselves into a pattern of even beeps.

That's when I was aware of the pressure over my mouth. Instinct and faulty memory told me it was the hand, blocking my voice. But when I snapped open my eyes, I could see through the plastic exterior of the breathing device, and then feel the tubes uncomfortably jostle in my throat when I emitted a sound of momentary terror.

"John? Can you hear me, John?"

I started to blink profusely, the lighting so bright in contrast to the darkness I had just awoken from. I felt my eyes begin to sting and tears of discomfort began to well up, blurring my vision. I moaned around the constricting tubes jammed down my throat, trying to convey my confusion even if the sound was pitiful and frightful.

"John? John, look at me."

My eyes shifted to the right where a blurry image stood before me. I saw his form standing there. His blue scarf wrapped lazily over his unfolded collar, his angular face looking down at me with almost a look of concern, but of course that wouldn't last long. I can just make out a twitch of his lips; a smile.

"John?"

The mouth moves, but the voice isn't his. It's feminine. A woman's. I blink once again, furling my brows slightly and trying my best to focus. It's not Sherlock.

It's Molly.

"Oh, John," she sighed in relief, her bright but reserved smile making itself visible. Her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail as usual, though a few strands were escaping. She quickly tucked them behind her undecorated ears, her same small smile flashing once again. "You've finally woken up," she breathed out once again, her shoulders dropping in a more relaxed way.

I made another pitiful sound, like a gurgle, my hands moving up to my face weakly and toying around with the mask, trying to figure out a means to take the sodding thing off.

"Oh, no, sorry," Molly was quick to respond, gently pulling my hands away, much to my dismay. "You can't take it off just yet," she frowned with a genuinely apologetic face, trying an awkward half-smile afterwards as she quietly added "sorry."

"You really had me surprised, you know."

Mycroft's usual snide remark filtered its way to me. I couldn't see him very well, but I could tell he wore the same grave face mixed with some other emotion that was hard to define. Almost disappointment.

"You went this morning to see an old friend and you left in an ambulance. Not exactly the most ideal situation, is it." The Holmes brother moved closer to the bed, his coat slung over his arm and both hands pocketed.

Now I had a better view of the look he wore. His pointed nose only exaggerated the frown he wore, a sort of demeaning quality in what he said.

"I heard about what he told you."

My eyes had begun to form more tears. I convinced myself it was because of the device forced down my throat, but the sensation of letting the tears escape grew steadily stronger the moment Mycroft mentioned the events earlier today.

"Not really what I had in mind. Of course, Sherlock always was hard to predict-even when he was slightly more sane…" his voice drifted off, his eyes cast down to his shoes where I could tell he was fidgeting a little. I knew Mycroft cared for Sherlock. It had been made obvious the moment he asked me to visit him. But I also knew Mycroft hated showing any emotion that would imply weakness. So after a moment of silence, he looked back up at me and corrected his train of thought. "Do get better soon, doctor. It pains me to know this happened to you." His words were stated with clarity and conviction, but all the while his eyes were fixed on mine and they did not show any sympathy or compassion.

I suddenly got the feeling there was an underlying statement planted in those words.

Molly had been avoiding all eye contact during the entire conversation and just now decided to chipper in. "Well, speaking of recovery, the good news is that you'll be making a _full _recovery...er… that sounded better in my head," she looked down again, the loose strands slipping from their confines and once again, she immediately fixed them.

I appreciated her company. I even was touched by Mycroft's being there. A little touched. But even when I was surrounded by old friends, it just made me think of time long since past. I remembered standing alongside the bed with them. I remember being on my feet and listening as Sherlock deducted some key evidence to breaking our newest case and finding the culprit.

"Er... John?"

I looked up at Molly with a wary gaze. I had a feeling she was keeping something from me. Something important. I didn't like the look on her face. Molly was never good at lying. Just a reflection of her lovely, loyal character, but foreboding in this instance.

I didn't like the tension building in my gut as I laid helpless under the covers with a machine pumping air into my lungs. Was I prepared for what she was about to tell me?

"About your full recovery, em… It technically is true...physically. W-what I mean is… The truth is…"

"Your psychosomatic limp has returned." Mycroft's eyes bore into mine. He said it so easily. "It's not uncommon for someone to regain an affliction such as this, especially when they experience something that triggers great emotional distress and trauma." He had said it like he were reading a school research paper.

The beeps of the monitor grew more rapid and brief. I closed my eyes, breathing through my nose and balling my fists. My brows twitched, thoughts running through my head and the feeling of immense humility and distraughtness overcoming me. I had won this battle. I had gotten over my fear. Why couldn't that be the end of it? I had already won. Hadn't I?

"John?"

Molly's voice was hesitant and pregnant with worry. "You've dealt with it before. It's probably extremely temporary. Maybe only a week or two." she added reasons to be optimistic in quick succession, and I knew she was just trying to lighten the severity of the situation. Her input didn't help despite her thoughtful intentions.

"Not likely," Mycroft muttered. "You suffered the limp first after you had been wounded in the shoulder. This time, it returned after a terse meeting with my brother. It's safe to assume you're in a more fragile state this time around." The way he said it was unnervingly condescending and transparent. My face flared red in both anger and frustration, though I couldn't honestly say it was aimed at the Holmes brother, and especially not Molly. Though, what Mycroft said did nothing to comfort me. I was upset at myself.

Sherlock's death had broken me down. I was back to square one. Lonely, depressed, and horribly, horribly unstable. I was barely able to take care of myself after Sherlock died on that sidewalk. I had moved out of the flat less than a week afterwards and said my goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson. I had moved back into my former apartment, the one I had lived in before I had ever met the great detective. I was literally back where I was when I had been discharged from the army and with no where to go. Only this time, I had lost something I was sure to never get back.

I was able to recover everything: my loneliness, my distress, my worries and doubts, and even my damned psychosomatic limp. But I'd never get my friend back.

It was painfully ironic.

"But you never know!" Molly's voice rose above Mycroft's, her big brown eyes shooting a glance over in the Holmes brother's direction. "These things aren't predictable. There's no magical treatment, but miracles happen," she said softly, clasping her hands together before her white coat, her stethoscope slung over her neck.

"Well, like I said, do make a hasty recovery," Mycroft straightened his jacket and made a curt smile. It was almost involuntary, like a programmed action. He started towards the door and paused for a second. "Oh, um. Mrs. Hudson stopped by earlier and dropped this off. She sends her regrets."

I opened my eyes, looking to what Mycroft held in his hands and staring defeatedly at what it was: my bloody cane.

It looked rustic. Like some medieval torture device. It was truly my ball-and-chain. With the cane being bestowed upon me once more, I suddenly felt more trapped than I had ever felt before. Even with the tracheal tube still lodged in my throat and my weak muscles confined to the cheap hospital mattress. The cane sparked a familiar fear inside of me. I began to dread moving at all. The effort I'd need to walk, to run… it seemed impossible. I thought about my dependency on the simple curved tool. My psychological need for it to be by my side always. It was my crutch. But, wasn't I injured enough?

"Until next time," Mycroft left, placing the cane on the chair by the door. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. The silver seemed to glare at me, taunting me. It dared me to try and make it across the room to retrieve it. It reminded me that I'd never part ways with it again. Like a drug, it needed me and I needed it.

Molly seemed to sense my silence and began to depart ways also. She continued to tell me to keep my hopes up and that this wasn't a big deal. "Just another bump in the road, really," she said. She went on to apologize about what happened with Sherlock. She didn't know the details, and the subject was even hard for her to mention judging from the way her lips would tremble when she began to say his name, but she was determined to leave me with some form of an apology.

I didn't say anything. I couldn't even if I wanted to. For once, I was actually glad I had an excuse not to talk. Suddenly, my foolish fear of being smothered and my words being distorted sounded all the more ridiculous. Now, I was afraid of admitting I was losing it. I was slowly, but surely, crumpling into a heap of emotional disaster. Only time would tell when the day came that I fell to my knees and wept, shouted, and screamed until my lungs gave way.

Yet, a naive part of me still clung to the idea that I could make it through. That I was still John Hamish Watson, doctor and ex-soldier; a man who was hardy and lasted through a war, mostly unscathed. I had dealt with a criminal mastermind and had been the flat-mate of the world's most inconsiderate and arrogant consulting detective. Surely, I could make it through this.

I breathed in through my nose and felt my exhale twist around the obstruction in my throat.

At that moment, I finally understood Mycroft's words. Make a hasty recovery so I might visit Sherlock again. That was what he wanted. He needed me to go once more into the fray and come out ready for battle at the next moment's notice.

It was a ruthless idea at best. Even for Mycroft it seemed cold and impersonal. But I'd do it. I'll go back.

But not for Mycroft; for myself.

And with a sense of determination and trepidation, I sealed my fate. I was going to prove Sherlock still existed. I was going to search in the deepest, darkest places and find the truth.

And even though I felt a part of me return in that moment of decisiveness, a part of me squirmed at the thought I had done exactly what he had predicted. What he had told me with frightening certainty:

"_Don't worry, you'll be back." _

And he was goddamn right.


	3. Chapter 3

**I AM SHERLOCKED**

Chapter Three:

* * *

**AN:** _Hello guys! Thanks for reading and, hopefully, enjoying my story thus far! :D_

_I hope you all know that I own none of these characters and that this plot is entirely of my own imagination and creation. It is based in the Sherlock Universe and kind of spirals around after the Reichenbach Fall. I apologize for my OOC moments (I try to keep them limited) and do hope you like what I am writing :] If you have any comments or questions, please, let me know! I love seeing your guys' comments and it really motivates me to keep on going. I will warn you, this story was originally meant to be rated M. I rated this T for now because it has not yet gotten to that part, but it very well may reach that point. Again, if I ever decide to write up to that part of the story. It really depends on you guys and the reactions I see! This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so... ta daa! Can't wait for series 4~ :] It's going to be awesome! Anyways, enjoy! R&amp;R if you can! It is greatly appreciated! If anyone has ideas, I might include them and dedicate a chapter to them. Who knows! _

_Now grab a cup of tea and some bread and jam and hold on for the ride! _

* * *

The very next day, I was released from hospital and was allowed to return to where I had been living. The doctors warned me to allow my body time to adjust and recuperate. Though I was out of the hospital, one false move and I could just as easily be sent back for an extended period of time.

"Go back to your regular routine and don't do anything strenuous. I recommend staying a night longer in bed with our supervision, but because you've persistently told us that is not what you wish, I will leave the responsibility of recovering to you. I warn you, Mr. Watson, you shouldn't take what happened too lightly. Based on your medical history, I can tell you this will likely happen again if you continue to ignore our specialists' advice. So take the first step and go back home and rest up. Oh, and," he fished unclipped a business card from his clipboard and handed it to me. "Another word of advice, go see your therapist."

I refrained from saying anything. They had long since removed the mask from over my face, but there was nothing pleasant I could say in response. I was standing, leaning against my cane, and a dull twinge aching in my leg. I was contracting muscles in my jaw and actively avoiding looking in his eyes.

"It'll help. It really will."

With my left hand, I reluctantly took the business card and deposited it into my other coat pocket; the one I never used.

After I had hailed a cab, the silence prompted me to continue thinking about the decision I had made. The decision to go back to that place and brave through another session of sitting across from a stranger and trying to isolate any part of Sherlock that might still be intact.

Why did I feel like it was the worst decision I had ever made?

I tapped my finger on the curved end of the cane, my left stuffed into my coat pocket where I could hide the tremors that had begun to plague me. I closed my eyes and forced another breath in my nose and out between my lips.

The mere thought of going back began to make me feel nauseous and begin to perspire. I wiped my left hand shakily over my brow and could feel a paralyzing episode of panic taking hold of me.

I dug around in my pockets for my handkerchief. My mind was starting to fade again and for some reason, I could not do this simple action calmly. I began to thrash around in my jacket, making sounds of frustration and heightening agitation. My hand jammed itself into the folds of my clothes and rummaged with chaotic and lack of direction. I felt something soft and yanked my hand out of my pocket without bothering to sort through things.

I brought everything in my hand to my attention and froze when I felt added weight in my palm. I paused, lines etching between my brows as I hesitantly moved the handkerchief away from whatever it was covering.

It was my phone. My cell phone. My sister's name etched into the back and the scratches covering its cold exterior.

_You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, and never see a drunk's without them. _

I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop the choking cry from escaping.

"Stop! Stop the cab!" I blurted. My stomach fluttered as the car veered to the left, pulling to a stop.

The cabbie turned to me and was saying something but everything started to grow muffled and I could feel the sharp, terrorizing sensation of my mind closing in on itself. _I was going to bloody faint if I didn't get out of this car right now. _

I felt my chest hum as strained whimpers of panic started to involuntarily escape me. I dropped everything in my hands. I frantically grasped for the door and pushed, letting the open air in.

I forced myself out the opening and scrambled to the sidewalk, using whatever was around me to support me as I staggered out. I left my cane in the car without thinking and nearly crashed to the ground when I stepped forward with my right foot. My knee buckled and I half-fell to the ground, my left hand shaking madly as I held onto something for dear life.

I hunched over, hyperventilating with my eyes opening wide and shutting closed sporadically. The faint-feeling hanging over my head continued to grow stronger, so I grew more panicked.

_Alright, John. Calm your breathing and focus on me. _

"_I can't. I bloody can't!"_

_Focus on me, John. Focus. Close your eyes, and focus._

"_Okay...okay…" _

_Are you focusing?_

"_Yes. Yes, I'm focusing…" _

_Good. Now breathe. Breathe when I tell you to, okay, John?_

Another whimper of panic slipped past but I nodded vigorously.

"_Okay." _

_Inhale. Keeping inhaling. _

I did as Sherlock told me.

_Now exhale. Slow down and relax. You're experiencing a panic-attack. Stop hyperventilating and your nausea and lightheadedness should fade. _

"_Okay. Okay." _

_Sir, are you all right?_

"_What?"_

_Sir, can you hear me? Should I call the ambulance?_

I opened my eyes and the cabbie was directly in front of me, fanning air towards me with a newspaper he must have grabbed from the stand I was leaning against.

As I started to react, the cabbie's distress waned and he breathed a relieved sigh. "Do I need to call someone? Do you have medication?"

"No, no, I'm fine," I whispered. I felt tired. Exhausted. "I just want to go...go home."

"Okay, okay. Let's get back in the car. The address you gave me, is that home?"

I nodded rapidly with my eyes closed as I was led back to the car. I used the cabbie as a crutch until I was back in my seat and the car started up. I kept my eyes closed, rubbing my temples with both hands as I hunched over, my elbows on my knees.

Although I was once again calmed and functioning normal, I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. A grief was settling on my shoulders and I couldn't put my finger on it. Perhaps it was just the after effect of a moment of distress. More likely, I feared, it was because Sherlock had been the only thing holding me together. And he had just been a figment of my imagination. I had even heard his voice evaluating my panic and giving me a diagnosis. Was I really that pathetic? Was I really so lost without him?

And worse off, I was beginning to think that's all Sherlock was. A product of my own mind and necessity. A part of my own conscience. That all Sherlock ever was had been something made up.

For the first time, I wasn't sure if I really believed in Sherlock Holmes. And the grief doubled ten-fold and I felt like I had betrayed my one and only, best-friend.

I had made it home. The cabbie was more than willing to help me to the porch and made sure I got in safe and sound. He was very kind and I paid him a little extra for all the trouble he had gone through. I apologized a little at that moment, but my fatigue and general embarrassment had made the ordeal short and meaningless.

It was now late at night. I had tried to sleep for hours on end, but all I could manage were half-hour long moments of rest and varying hours of terrible consciousness in between.

At present, I was sitting on the mess of overturned sheets and restless thrashing and turning. My head and back were pressed against the bare wall, my eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. My laptop was laid beside me, the screen producing a column of light in the dark of the late night hour.

The screen showed a web-page; my web-page. The blog I had started with Sherlock. Regrettably, I had to admit I was unable to help but read through all the cases I had written and posted. I memorized every word and recalled the moments I had been stumped on what to say and asked for Sherlock's input. Of course, his input was hardly ever used, but even as I read through them now I could distinguish every line that was inspired by the man's responses.

"_The science of deduction,"_ he had said once.

"_Brilliant,"_ was my response.

I had even smiled sadly when glancing at a curious case I had written. "Sherlock Holmes, Baffled" was the title.

"_Don't put the unsolved ones!"_ I heard him protest. I told him it was more successful than listing 240 different types of tobacco ash. I subsequently heard his voice correct me: "_243 to be exact."_

To my amazement, the blog was still doing incredibly well. The web-page counter was still in the thousands. Still popular even after my months of absence. Comments were flooding the comment sections, but they all had the same questions.

_What happened? I heard Sherlock Holmes jumped off a roof! What happened to this blog? Why has nothing been posted? Is Sherlock Holmes dead? What is the answer to the case? Why is this one still unsolved! What about the case! _

_Is Sherlock Holmes dead? _

I had quickly exited out of the page. The amount of questions were too much to add to the ones I already had floating listlessly in my mind with no answer in sight. Instead, I had gone to another page. To my drafts. The latest draft.

I read my latest excerpt:

_The details of this case are far too shocking to describe too clearly, but what I can say is that Sherlock continues to surprise me with his knowledge of forensic sciences (identifying locations from dirt and matter from just a pair of old sneakers), his extensive memory (he recalled an event long since passed that was critical to solving this case), and his incredible acting skills (though I don't necessarily agree with how he used this skill, it did help in gaining information). This particular case has become more of a twisted game than a challenge of science and knowledge. I'm not sure I can compare it with something we've done before to better express this to all of you. On a higher note, we've managed to stay in the game and are closer than ever to solving this case. _

The rest of the draft is rubbish and is the obvious work of a struggling writer. I've tried rewriting this countless times, but I've always ended up with less than I started with. Eventually I gave up entirely.

I wanted to bring some kind of conclusion to the blog. Some kind of response to the public outrage that I've been seeing lately, but… to write an end was too final. It was too deceiving when in actuality this story was anything but finished.

I wished the case were solved. I wished Sherlock had died when he took the fall. I wished I could mourn for my friend's death and continue to believe that Sherlock was a good man and a loyal friend. Because at least I'd be able to move on and admit Sherlock had an end-no matter how sad that ending was.

Instead, I was treated to a fake burial and ceremony where I saw my friend's name plastered on a gravestone and a nameless, unknown body lowered into his plot. I walked away that dark day, dressed in black and ready to continue my life when Mycroft pulled me into his nondescript black car and said: "Sherlock survived."

"What do you mean Sherlock survived?" I looked at Mycroft with disbelief. "Y-you're telling me..that..that Sherlock is alive..that...that this has all been just one big show and that it was a perfectly fine thing to do to let me believe that my best friend...my...best friend...fell and died?" I was ready to lunge at Mycroft and latch my hands onto his throat. How could he, even he, have the audacity to trick me and put me through this horrible, horrible ignorance.

Mycroft must have seen the anger flaring in my eyes and the tension rise for he paused at that moment and chose his words carefully: "There's a perfectly fine explanation-"

"No! There's not!" I shouted, spittle flying out my mouth at the ferocity I said those words. "Don't tell me there's a reasonable explanation for this because there is _not_!"

Mycroft had actually flinched at my outburst. He physically flinched, but that had not given me enough satisfaction. "If you'd let me explain, Dr. Watson, perhaps you'd at least be a little appeased," he raised his voice.

I was fuming and I didn't want to hear anymore of what he had to say, but the possibility that Sherlock was alive and that Mycroft could tell me how and why was enough to make me silent, though glaring daggers all the while.

"Well, then," Mycroft began, straightening his jacket once more and nodding towards the driver of the vehicle who began to drive away from the graveyard. "Sherlock survived. His head was smashed open and he's currently in a coma, but he's breathing. The doctors can't tell me if he'll survive the night or not, but he's alive. At the moment."

"Who...who did we bury, then? Why are we even having this burial if Sherlock is still alive?" Questions were pouring out my mouth like a broken dam, but Mycroft gave me a severe look and I allowed him to finish.

"There remains the possibility for Sherlock to make a recovery, but he needed to 'die'. We've gone through with his 'death' in order to make certain that his survival didn't have any...repercussions."

"Repercussions? I don't understand."

"Moriarty was found dead on the rooftop. It looked like he had shot himself in the head. Now, knowing Moriarty and the fact Sherlock was up there with him, there must have been a reason he killed himself-or tried to at least. My first thought had been that Moriarty was forcing Sherlock to kill himself in order to save someone else. But because Moriarty had died before Sherlock decided to take his leap of faith, well, it opened up much more...darker conclusions."

I stared at the man, my chest tightening and apprehension swelling and twisting painfully inside me. "What are you trying to say."

"Sherlock said he was a fake to you, didn't he?"

I held my breath, a sharp pang of dread instilled inside me. Though I said nothing, Mycroft must have read my expression. "I thought so. The story with Richard Brooks has been contained for the most part, but not soon enough. Sherlock has been leaked as a fraud. Judging from Moriarty's part in all this, I can only guess that it's because of this story that Sherlock tried to kill himself."

From the way Mycroft concluding his story, I could tell he was intent on leaving it there, but it gave me no answer. "What about the story? Mycroft, why did...why did Sherlock...why did he try to take his own life?"

Mycroft hesitated. I could see the momentary reluctance flash in his eyes and the way he stilled. "Because Sherlock thought that taking his own life was the only way to redeem himself..."

_Redeem himself? Why would he need to redeem himself… _

And if reading my thoughts, Mycroft said with more clarity: "Because the story is true."

"You can't seriously believe that Sherlock lied!" I locked eyes with Holmes brother and shook my head at the incredulous answer he gave me. Mycroft should know Sherlock had been lying when he told him. But what I saw was his grave expression, unfazed by what I said. He looked unaffected by my remark and cemented in his own belief.

"Then, Dr. Watson, do explain to me why Sherlock, my own dear brother, would take his own life."

And eventhough I was so certain that Mycroft's analysis had been wrong and that Sherlock was not a fake, I found myself at a loss for words and with no other ideas as to why a crime-solving genius, who was authentic in every way, would try to kill himself if what Mycroft told me was not true.

And as if my silence was the final judgement, Mycroft nodded to the driver and the car stopped. "I'll contact you again, Dr. Watson. Do try and keep this secret amongst the both of us. We wouldn't want Sherlock's 'death' to be in vain. After all, if Sherlock doesn't wake up, it might become reality."

A man in the passenger seat got out and opened the door for me. I gave Mycroft one last look, a helpless, baffled expression. I couldn't believe that Sherlock was a fraud, but I couldn't believe an innocent man would have taken his life either.

The man got back in the car and the tinted windows left me hoping that Mycroft was now talking of the success of his lie and that he was now letting the truth show on his face when I couldn't see it. I held this single hope close by as I turned around and looked at the straightened "221b" on the door.

Then it dawned on me that Mycroft had been there and had been searching. Helplessly looking for something that would shed doubt on his suspicions that Sherlock had tried to commit suicide because he was a fake. That the man had thoroughly picked his way through this story and was left with what he had begun with.

Mycroft hadn't lied. So all my hope was placed somewhere else. On Sherlock. I pushed all my thoughts to willing Sherlock to wake up so I might ask him of that day and know that he lied about it. About being a fraud. That it was all part of a shrewd plan that I was too "simple-minded" to put trust in. That he would tell me that he was real. Everything about him was real. I believed in Sherlock Holmes.

And he did wake up. And Mycroft did contact me. So I went and I sat across from him and listened as he threw my hopes on the ground and crushed them beneath the heels of his dulled shoes.

This time, it was I, in the middle of the night, remembering his face as he told me of his little ploy about being a fake, and how easily he confirmed my worst fears.

"_It's all true."_

_Of course._


	4. Chapter 4

**I AM SHERLOCKED:**

Chapter Four:

The bills came in today. More of them, I should say. I'm starting to feel like a hoarder with more of these letters beginning to take up more space than I'd like.

Sherlock and I found our detective work had never been very lucrative, even with our success. It had been more of a public service, really. We were making the world a more just place. More precisely,we were solving the crimes more for ourselves than for the money. Sherlock was in it for the challenge, and I was along for the ride.

The blog did help. But, for obvious reasons I stopped keeping up with it and the savings gradually disappeared.

I thought about getting a job. I really had seriously considered it. I almost turned in another application to the hospital, but along with Sarah being there, undoubtedly she still remembered the terrifying date we had gone on, there was also reluctance on my part. I felt like I was turning my back on him. That I was giving our greatest adventures up.

I could never find a job quite as thrilling as the one I had employed myself with by staying at Sherlock's side. The thought of civilian life still scared me. The life without Sherlock was even more frightening.

**When you have the time, come to the Institute. Quickly.**

**MH**

I had the strangest feeling he didn't really care if I had the time or not. Mycroft had not wasted a single moment in contacting me. I wasn't entirely surprised judging from when he last spoke to me. He did say to get better soon. At least now he couldn't call _me _a liar.

"Oh god," I sighed, running a hand through my short hair. _What was I getting myself into? _

I didn't waste time getting prepared. I already felt like a bloody mess, but I wasn't going to give Sherlock anymore ammunition to get under my skin if I could help it. And no matter how disturbing it was to think that Sherlock would try to unnerve me, I knew it was true.

I showered, running cold water over my body to try and wake up. I hadn't slept a wink last night and I didn't want it to be too glaringly obvious.

I combed through my hair and tried not to be too bothered by the amount of loose hair that came out with it. My hair didn't look any more thinned than normal, but the fact everything was taking a physical toll on me was unsettling.

I shaved my face for the first time in days. I had actually started to grow a patchy beard and a moustache. I almost kept the moustache, but I decided it would be best not to. I wouldn't let Sherlock have the satisfaction.

I looked myself in the eye in the mirror and picked out everything that was possibly wrong with me. I looked weak, stressed, thin, and paranoid. The bags under my eyes looked inflamed and worse than ever. My eyes were darting around like scared prey. My hands couldn't stop shaking, even when I pressed them against the sides of the sink. I couldn't stop moving my jaw or twitching my nose.

"Alright, okay…" I muttered to myself, not liking how faint I sounded even when directed towards my own reflection. I looked down, took a deep breath, and looked back up. "You haven't any money," I commented, furrowing my brows slightly. At least my voice had cleared. "You haven't got a girlfriend, you're lonely and you've got a damn psychosomatic limp" I surprised myself at how sharply I pronounced the profane word, a moment of anger taking over me. I muttered an apology at myself and then worried at how natural it came out.

I took another sigh and refocused. "You're John Hamish Watson, ex-army doctor of the fifth regiment Northumberland Fusiliers… I've been shot. I've killed more men than I'd like to remember and I've been held hostage by a criminal mastermind with c4 strapped to my bloody chest…" I felt a surge of confidence well up inside me and I started to believe that I could make it through this day alive.

I nodded as if confirming everything I had just said, my reflection returning a still apprehensive expression, but at least it retained some composure.

I heard something vibrate in the next room and left the bathroom feeling a little better about myself. I found my phone and frowned.

**Your speech was endearing. Really. Get in the car.**

**MH **

I paused and had to read the message over again before I could let the embarrassment blanket my face. My eyes immediately began to scan around my room. At least I knew Mycroft had one camera in the bathroom. But suddenly, after thinking about it a moment more, that realization didn't give me any comfort at all.

I got dressed in my coat and shoes and limped my way outside. A black car sat at the end of the driveway, the exhaust running and the tinted windows glaring back.

I stood outside, hesitating for just a moment. That car was surely taking me to the Institute and this was the last time I'd be able to relax. I took a deep breath and tried to remember my little list of encouraging facts, using the cane to walk toward the car.

Before I could get too close, a man emerged from the passenger side and opened the door for me. I could see Mycroft waiting in the back, his large nose pointed towards the front of the car, not even looking in my direction. He looked focused, as usual, and was hard to discern. I got in the car and the door shut behind me.

The car started to pull away from the curb and make its way onto the road. Minutes of wordless time transpired between everyone in the car. I would've normally liked to spend my time with Mycroft in peace and quiet, recalling that he usually said something that upset me far too frequently. But today, I had too many questions.

"Sorry, but did you...did you bug my bathroom?" I blurted out. Strangely, this was the question that had been pressing me the most.

Mycroft only sighed and didn't look in my direction. "If you must ask, it's not just your bathroom. I took precautions. And don't worry, it's just a microphone. Not anything too invasive."

"_Too invasive_?" I parroted with a snort. "When has the concept of surveilling someone else's home _not _been invasive? The mere idea of it? Just because it's only a microphone doesn't make it any less discomforting!"

"Though I'd love to chat about something that's been installed in that home over three years ago-"

"What?!"

"-There are more _important_ things on my mind…" Mycroft faced me at last, one brow raised and the other furled. "Take this briefcase."

From the floor of the car, Mycroft handed me a briefcase that was freakishly similar to my own. It was brown and even had a worn look. I took it with slight bewilderment.

Upon seeing my reaction, Mycroft nearly rolled his eyes. I could see his brow twitch. "Open it," he instructed when I failed to do so quickly enough.

I pulled the latches down and the lid popped open. I pushed it away from the other half and examined the contents. There were papers that looked like they belonged in a briefcase, a couple of pens, a notepad, and a curious item: a small, tiny earpiece. Something out of a Bond film.

"What's this?" I held the tiny device in my hand, knowing very well what it was, but not at all what for.

"You wear it in your ear," Mycroft stated blandly. I frowned slightly. "I'll have its twin with me. I'll be telling you what to say and what to do."

"What?"

"I simply cannot have a repeat of what happened last time. I need answers, and you're going to get them for me."

"So, I'm your puppet. Basically. That's what you're telling me."

"Do you have a problem with this, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft raised his chin, looking me in the eye with a haughtiness that was far too familiar.

I began to grit my teeth again, muscles bulging out on my jaw as I worked my anxiety away. "I'll get your answers, but I want to be able to speak freely. I don't need you talking in my ear." I hated the way I stammered on some words, but I hoped he took it as seriously as I wanted him to. I wanted answers just as much, but I didn't need Mycroft telling me what to say. I knew Sherlock. I didn't need his help.

"Are you absolutely certain about that?" Mycroft's gaze never left my eyes, even when I looked away to view the rest of the car. Black. Everything was black. The driver was dressed in black. The interior was black.

"I'll get answers. I will."

Mycroft didn't look convinced. "I believe you're having money troubles, am I correct? You admitted it yourself just ten minutes ago, so I wouldn't bother lying."

"Sorry, are you bribing me?" I shaped my mouth into a smile, narrowing my eyes and lowering my brows at the audacity of the man before me. A sound of disbelief escaped me, and I was almost tempted to laugh. "You are, aren't you? You really are."

"Call it whatever you'd like, Dr. Watson, but I know for a fact you're jobless and not in a position to change that anytime soon. I also know for a fact it's out of your own doing you haven't applied anywhere yet, so I'm led to believe you haven't got any source of income in the world." His words stung, but I said nothing and kept my face even and let out another snort. "So I'm offering to pay, if that's what it takes."

"How much?" I called his bluff, but he seemed perfectly genuine.

"A large sum," he responded immediately. We stared at each other. Both trying to predict the next move. It was beginning to turn into a more personal matter than solving the problem with Sherlock. "I know I offered you money before to look after my brother. You refused and now look where he's ended up."

My smile dropped and I felt an overwhelming wave of anger run through my veins. "Are you blaming me for what happened?"

"Of course not. I should've done a better job myself, but the truth of the matter is I'm offering you another chance. Ask my questions, get the answers, and I will pay you."

Although I was heavily agitated with the Holmes brother and I disagreed with the idea of having him using me as a translator, I did need the money. Maybe it wasn't actually a bad idea. Now that I thought about it, being alone with that man...what would I even say to him? What did I have to say to him? I fell apart last time, and even though I felt better prepared today, I still didn't completely believe I had everything in control.

Maybe Mycroft's proposition had more sense than I thought.

"Fine. I'll accept."

"Good," Mycroft made an attempt at a smile though it looked just as fake as the one he'd given me at the hospital. "Put this in your ear and follow my instructions."

I sighed and placed the small device into my ear, already regretting my decision but unable to go back on my word. I already felt trapped with the bloody thing stuck in my ear.

The car pulled to a stop and instantly I felt chills running along my skin. I froze up and had to close my eyes again and take a series of long, deep breaths.

"Good luck, Watson," Mycroft said. Even a positive message like that sounded demeaning in his voice. "Try not to let him get the best of you this time around." His inflection was light-hearted, his voice pulling up at the end of the sentence, and I found it annoyingly nonchalant.

The car door opened and I exited the car, pulling the cane close to my hip.

Here I was. Once again.

I watched my left hand tremble once again and stuffed it into my pocket. I stilled my body and forced my chin up as I started to walk towards my doom.

I entered the building and repeated the process of searching for my card, but I managed to hold some integrity intact this time around. I was once again led down the empty halls until I reached a stopping point. I could already tell it was a different room. Thinking back on it, I had broken the mirror. I suddenly felt embarrassed by the memory, but I didn't understand why it was affecting me so much now.

_Keep it together… _ I told myself. The door opened for me and like the room before, there was a plain, simple chair bolted to the floor and another located across the room from it. Mirrors lined the walls like wallpaper and glared back at me. I averted my eyes from my reflection, already well aware of what I looked like.

I couldn't bare to see the fear on my face. Not right now.

"Please wait in your chair. He'll be brought in soon."

"_John, can you hear me?_"

Mycroft's voice was unexpected, and admittedly unpleasant. I flinched, momentarily forgetting I was wearing the earpiece. I fiddled with it, trying to discover if there was a way to possibly mute it or turn down the volume.

"_For God's sake, stop picking at it. If I wanted him to know you were listening to me then I would've just interviewed him myself!"_

"Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but I'm pretty sure he's going to figure it out eventually," I muttered under my breath.

"_Well that's the idea. Eventually isn't immediately. The longer it takes for him to find out, the longer we have to be strategic about this. Just do whatever you can to keep him from finding out too soon. Reword if you like, but just don't __**ignore**__." _

"Alright, alright...A please wouldn't be too devastating now and then, you know."

"_You do know you're getting paid for this, Watson. Don't tell me you've already forgotten. It's only been five minutes." _

That was the closest I was going to get to a thank you.

Of course, every thought I had disappeared when a door across the room opened and Sherlock was escorted in with two men on either side. His hands were cuffed behind his back and chains were shackled around his ankles. He looked like a murderer from the way they chained him up and treated him.

He was placed in the bolted chair, his ankles first strapped in, and then his wrists. He did not struggle or resist. He seemed more like a puppet than I, moving his hands when they pulled the strings and doing only what they wanted him to. He acted docile.

But his eyes had remained on me the entire time. The ice cold blues were marred with red, and they latched on to me so intently, I had the urge to squirm in my seat and look away. But I did not.

I sat still and matched his gaze. I did not blink and dared not avert my eyes should he think it a weakness. I was not going to give this man any validation that he was making me fearful or uncomfortable. No. I was playing his game.

If he wanted to intimidate, then I would play along.

The last of the binds had been strapped down and the men left the room. Sooner than I even noticed, I was alone with Sherlock Holmes. I knew the mirrors were really windows from the right side, but I could never have felt more isolated than in that moment when everyone left and all I could feel was Sherlock's gaze, analyzing.

"So my deduction was correct. You've come back," he smirked. his hair was more unkempt than the times he'd sulk on the couch from boredom. A grayish shadow masked over the lower half of his face and I could tell he hadn't been sleeping.

"Surprised? That doesn't sound like you," I folded my arms, leveling with his own tone and determined to win this game.

"You don't even know who I am," he chuckled. "I already told you, I'm not the consulting detective you thought I was," he leaned forward at this, hissing out the words.

"Well, I guess you're right about that," I took another deep breath, looking down as I unfolded my arms and clasped my hands instead, moving my thumbs absentmindedly. "But you still made a brilliant deduction. You couldn't have possibly researched that I'd come back, now could you?" I looked back up at him, smiling up at the man out of a growing feeling of courage deep inside me.

I wasn't going to let him see me react so easily.

"Come now, John. Anyone could have predicted that," I tried not to let my smile falter at what he said, but it was dreadfully difficult. "You're much too sentimental to leave me be."

"That may be true," I nodded in accordance. "But I bet you can tell me a lot of other things about me." I leaned forwards, still smiling though my eyes lacked the amused gleam.

The man mimicked my motion, leaning forwards and grinning devilishly. "That you're stressed? Yes, I can see that. You've also picked up the habit of smoking, something I noticed our last meeting but didn't quite get to after you bolted out the door like a bitch with its tail between its legs. You've begun storing a carton in your coat pocket, and I can only assume you're keeping a lighter handy also. It's a nasty habit, really. Smoking. I'd recommend dabbling with drugs. Much more effective and sanitary if you clean the needles properly. I can also tell you that you're suffering from insomnia. You didn't sleep at all these past few days, have you? You're also losing weight, probably suffering from depression, and look at that… you've got your cane back. Guess I our last meeting shocked you so much you suffered trauma and psychological damage," he grinned like a fiend at me. Showing all his perfect teeth and never turning away even as he deducting everything. And everything he said was true. Painfully true. The lack of emotion in his voice and the way he read me like an open book stung. It truly did. "How pathetic is that."

I looked down from his eyes, unable to maintain eye contact when my vision started to blur from oncoming tears. But unlike last time, I merely willed them away and felt a burning desire to return the favor overcome me instead. I let out a laugh. It wasn't substantial and it wasn't meant to convey any real emotion except to release the pressure in my chest. It was a sad laugh, a quiet sound.

I looked back up to the man, his face gleaming with victory as he read my actions carefully and exactly. "If there's one thing I knew about Sherlock Holmes, it's that he was the biggest show off I had ever known."

His smile twitches in the faintest degree and I knew I had struck a chord. I continued, urged on by the small dent in his defenses. "I guess some things don't change. Even in death."


	5. Chapter 5

**I AM SHERLOCKED:**

Chapter Five:

The room was as quiet as a grave. I had begun to feel a little more courage swell in my chest. I wasn't as afraid. But, I was still terrified. The room had grown considerably more still. The air was stagnant but thick with uncategorized tension. My black windbreaker seemed to turn paper-thin as chills started to make the hairs on my arms stand erect. Courage or no courage, I was slowly losing under Sherlock's even gaze.

I wasn't hard to read. Anyone could have taken a glance at me and seen that I was suffering from some sort of ailment. You didn't have to be a deducting genius to notice that. But when I looked at Sherlock, and though I knew he was suffering from something, too, I drew a blank.

_Hasn't shaved in days… doesn't appear to be sleeping well...his hair is greasy and his appearance doesn't show any form of hygienic care or seems to be bothersome to him at all. _

And while my diagnosis might be all correct, I couldn't help but rest it all on one absolute fact: Sherlock was being kept in a bloody psych ward. Of _course_ he looks the way he does.

I knew they probably prevented Sherlock from coming in contact with any item he could use to hurt someone, or himself. Among those objects were razor blades. So his darkening lower jaw wasn't something I could pin to a change in character. And I knew bloody well that if I had been thrown into a psych ward, I'd have trouble sleeping and I can understand falling into a depressed state where you wouldn't want to clean yourself up or make an attempt at looking presentable because in all honesty, who were you going to present yourself to? I had been the same way until this morning. And the only reason I had decided to shave at all was because I was trying to prevent Sherlock from doing exactly what I was doing now.

In the end, I was left with absolutely nothing. There was nothing substantial I could detect about the man before me that he wouldn't expect me to already know. I was losing this game.

"I know this game, Watson. I've played it far too often to be fooled by amateur acting." His tone had changed to a softer threat, but the words left his lips with perfectly pronounced beginnings and ends, making everything a little sharper. I had heard Sherlock use this tone before when he was particularly upset and degrading. Sadly, the only instance I could quite clearly recall was when Sherlock was confronting a madman in a public pool.

"Amateur acting?" I repeated, raising both brows up as I leaned back in my chair, my leg aching. "I can assure you, if I had been acting, I would have picked to play someone a little better suited for having a conversation with you."

"And what kind of person is that?"

"An arse."

"And what kind of person do you define yourself as, I wonder." Sherlock leaned forward a fraction more, shackles clinking as he forced his person outwards, exceeding what I saw as a comfortable position. "Do you think you're brave? Sitting with your back pressed against the wall and people watching from all around us? I bet you think you're fearless coming back to this place to talk to a dead memory and confront whatever idiotic part of you that still thinks you can save me so you might bring back your dear Sherlock. What a heroic thing you are, Watson, chasing shadows in the dark. Best watch where you step or you might just trip." His nostrils flared and he bared his teeth at me with every word. His piercing eyes widened to me, revealing the lack of empathy as expressed with his words.

I didn't realize I was gripping the arms of the chair until the sharp edges dug into my palms and made my flesh throb. I was caught under his gaze and I was fighting for control. Fear had instilled inside me and I began to feel as cold as his voice. I didn't know whether to start shouting or crying. All the composure had vanished when I listened to Sherlock stab me in the chest. It was the hardest thing to do, sit and listen as my best friend, a man who was once my best friend, snarl at me with venomous truths and what I so dearly hoped were pointless lies. A deranged look in his eyes convinced me had those bonds given way, Sherlock wouldn't have hesitated to slit my throat.

"_Compose yourself, Watson. I still have questions." _

Mycroft's voice was unusually comforting. The man's tone was still unsympathetic, but it woke me up from falling into despair, like a slap in the face. I roused from my momentary stupor, closing my eyes for a few seconds before I decided to lock eyes with the patient again.

"What have you got to say, Watson? What's in the script next?" His eyes were so eagerly waiting a response, I found myself biting my tongue just to seem any degree of defiant or unpredictable, but I could see that he had me cornered. Response or no response, Sherlock had put me in checkmate and was waiting to see what I'd do next. Move to the left, or to the right.

"_Ask him about Richard Brook. Do it."_

"Alright," I breathed out. I wasn't sure who my reply was directed to, but it seemed to suffice both as Mycroft did not bother to mutter in my ear and Sherlock seemed pleasantly surprised, smirking haughtily as he leaned back in his chair, red marks covering his wrists and bare ankles. "If you're really a fake, then, tell me about Richard Brook."

Sherlock's head threw itself back and a loud sigh of frustration emptied itself into the room and echoed for moments afterwards. "I've told you! How many times must I repeat myself!" Sherlock's hands fought against the restraints once again, writhing with aggravation. "Richard Brook was hired to play a villain! A mere tool to harbor all the blame on. A face to address your hatred and contempt. Was he _really _such a good actor? Can you _not _get that simple fact through your neanderthal skull?"

"I know who Richard Brook is. I was hoping you might focus more on why he was found dead on the rooftop. Forensics are claiming he shot himself," I swallowed.

Sherlock drew another breath and a dramatic sigh followed. He sat upright once again, looking at me with a tilted countenance. "Why does that surprise you? He was an actor who was hated for playing his part-no, famed for playing it. And I decided to stop the magic act and he fell apart. He didn't see how he could be successful after labeling himself as "James Moriarty." I was his only employer and he didn't see how things could go on if I decided to end things once and for all. I told him it was over on that rooftop, and he killed himself."

"He offed himself. Just like that?"

"Yes."

I looked at the man with and unconvinced stare. I crossed my arms over my jumper and windbreaker. "Sherlock, even I could come up with a lie better than-"

"Anyone could, John. I'm simply stating the truth. I'm sorry if you don't like it, but unless you'd like me to give a skewed version of what really happened then you'll just have to believe what I say. I'm the only witness of what happened. Even if I am lying, you'd never be able to prove it or truly convince yourself that I am not."

A flush of anger rose within me, but I said nothing and let silence reign for a few more seconds. "So, you're telling men Richard Brook was so unstable, he was prepared to end his life at a moment's notice?"

"I chose Richard Brook specifically because he was not mentally regular. To play a madman, one has to be mad in one way or another. Richard Brooks was a desperate man, ready to please in any way he could, much like yourself."

I bit down on the inside of my mouth until I tasted blood.

"He was a failing actor, and I brought him to fame, something an actor longs for. An illustrious career, even if it was playing a hated villain. His mental condition only worsened the more he played his part, regurgitating script I wrote for him but believing in his character nonetheless. It wasn't just a role for him in the end. He _needed _Moriarty. It was his success, his symbol of accomplishment. And when I threatened to take it all away, well… he couldn't live with it."

"That doesn't bother you."

"What doesn't bother me?"

"That you drove a man to kill himself? That doesn't bother you at all?" I asked the questions, even if I didn't believe a word he said. Listening to Sherlock reason the cloudy events of that day was infectious. I wanted nothing more to believe that Sherlock never existed and that this man before me was the person I had associated myself with for the past two years. I wanted nothing more than to throw the idea of Sherlock's existence away and out of my life, but I couldn't. I agonized over the chance that there might be some hidden truth somewhere that would make any sense and bring back the life I had.

"No."

"No?" I shook my head. "No?"

"Are you having a stroke, Watson? I said no."

I felt myself lapsing in and out of focus and I knew I was losing my grip on control.

"And… you jumped. You called me, confessed, and jumped," I was on the edge of my seat, my eyes searching every curve and wrinkle in his face. He couldn't be serious. He wasn't telling the truth, he couldn't be. "Why did you bloody jump, Sherlock?"

Sherlock groaned. He muttered something.

"Sorry...what?" It had been said so quietly.

"Bored."

I gazed at him, completely flummoxed.

"Bored!" Sherlock's voice boomed, his baritone conquering the sounds of shattering plates and pounding fists. "BORED!"

He repeated the word ceaselessly, screaming his bloody head off. I didn't know when I had moved, but I had. I found my back pressed against the walls of mirrors, the chair tipped over and my heart beginning to drum in my chest, steadily growing faster and louder.

"_Calm down, doctor!" _

I could hear sounds from behind the walls and I knew they were coming to take Sherlock away. A sudden wave of desperation came over me and I found myself rushing towards the distressed man.

"Sherlock!"

"BORED!"

"Sherlock, stop it!"

The man looked straight into my eyes and bellowed the word, spittle flying off his lips and the queasy smell of sweat and clamminess turning sour in my nose. His head shook with every howl, his shoulders braced and his hands balled into fists.

"Sherlock…" the word ended off with a weakness I couldn't deny was there. I was looking at a madman. Sherlock was mad. Completely, utterly, horrifyingly mad.

"_Dammit, get away from him, Watson!"_

I felt my entire body freeze in place, Sherlock's body was pulling with all his might against what held him down and his face had turned blotchy and red.

"BORED!" He screamed.

"Sherlock, shut up!" My hands were on his shoulders, trying to calm him down, his head thrashed side to side, his entire body beneath my fingers shaking and convulsing. I felt sick to my stomach and refused to breathe in fear I would just let everything go.

"Step away from the patient, Doctor Watson!" The voice shouted from the hall, the sounds of boots hitting the ground running surrounding us. The doors swung open and guards began to flood in.

"Sherlock!" I put my hands on either side of the man's face and forced him to look at me. The whites of his eyes were crossed with popped veins and the irises quivered with the frailty I felt in the pit of my stomach. "Sherlock, please!" I held his head firm in my grip, the touch of his unshaven face scratchy and unpleasant and the perspiration forming on his brow made my hands damp.

"Doctor Watson!" I felt hands grabbing my shoulders and my instincts took over. I fought against them, chills running down my spine as the memory began to come back to me.

My eyes fixed on Sherlock's. I could feel the muscles of his jaw ripple beneath my fingers. His lips were chapped and broken but he uttered in a guttural, scratchy voice: "Just let me die."

I gasped for breath, not realizing I had been avoiding the air from reaching my lungs until my head swam with confusion and shock. The bandage that had been wrapped around Sherlock's head had become loosed from all his frantic shaking and a stream of blood streaked down the side of his face and onto my trembling hands. I could see clearly that the sutures had torn and the wound had reopened. Scarlet met with scarlet, small streams forming large rivers to empty out to sea.

"Sherlock…" I breathed.

My hands were wrenched from his face, they were coated in his blood.

"Sherlock!" I panicked. I began to push and pull, trying to get to my friend. "You don't understand! He's my friend!" A jolt of pain shot up my leg and I fell to the ground. I was out in the hallway. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Sherlock's bleeding form. He had passed out. The door closed.

"SHERLOCK!" I screamed. The words tore through my larynx and it hurt. It hurt so much.

"It's okay. Release him." Mycroft's suited form appeared in front of me and I could feel myself sink to the floor as the hands holding me up let me go. I could not see anything but blood. His blood. I felt the warmth and stickiness on my palms, trickling down my fingers.

"Watson. Watson, look at me!" His voice had raised and I looked at him, trying not to picture the crimson running down his face…

Mycroft sighed and stood up, he looked somewhere above me and gave a curt nod.

I did not move my gaze. I was seeing it all over again. Sherlock's body. Smashed and crumpled on the ground. The dark blood flooding out of his head and trickling in the cracks of the cobblestone.

I felt someone grab my arm and I imagined myself being pulled away from my friend. I tried to wrench it out of the stranger's grip. I felt a pinch in the crook of my arm, and the images began to fade in to black.

"_I'm not impressed, Doctor Watson. Not in the slightest."_

Then they became more vivid than ever.


	6. Chapter 6

**I AM SHERLOCKED**

Chapter Six:

I knelt there, beside the greatest detective to ever live. I knelt there, with his blood on my hands. It poured out of his cracked skull, rising to cover the streets in a layer of dark red. The pungent stench of iron permeated the scene, and I could feel my lungs ache for fresh air.

People were crowded around, but they didn't try and stop me from helping him. They formed a tight circle. Everywhere I looked, a pair of eyes was watching intently. Hushed murmurs joined the sickening smell and I could feel cold sweat drenching my body.

I took his palm, cold and still, and pressed two fingers into his blue wrist. Nothing. Not a single sign of a beating heart. His skin looked more lifeless than normal and his eyes were half-lidded and glazed over with a defeated, far away absence. His hair, curly and unkempt, was caked with dark blood and his face was pressed against the ground.

I wiped the sweat away from my brow, unable to think properly. _What was I to do? He was already dead. Was there anything I could do? There must be something I can do! _I could feel his blood smear across my forehead and intermingle with my perspiration. I could feel the weight of his life draining away on my very own countenance. What was I to do?

"Bored."

"What?" I glanced down at Sherlock's body, mangled and disfigured. He was looking at me. His eyes staring straight into my soul.

"Bored!"

"Sherlock, stop it!" I tried to quiet him, the crowd became rowdier, jostled awake by Sherlock's outbursts.

"BORED BORED BORED BORED!"

I flung my eyes open, hurling my body forwards until I was sitting upright. I breathed in like I had been brought back to life, filling my lungs to their fullest extent. I filled them until my chest hurt and I couldn't fill them anymore.

My hands grasped at anything I could find that would give me a sense of security. I found some comfort in what appeared to be sheets, crammed and crumpled tightly in my hands until the thin material burned the skin of my palms.

I appeared to be in a bed. I felt no immediate danger, however, and when my eyes lost their panicked craze, I finally noticed where I was. Not at home as my initial thought was. At least, not home anymore.

I was in the flat.

"Good. You're awake."

My head snapped to the right, facing the Holmes brother seated in the chair, reading a newspaper and enjoying tea.

I instinctively began to switch to a more defensive mode, breathing through my nose and watching Mycroft closely. It was already bad enough I was back here of all places. I hadn't stepped foot inside the flat since...since the incident and the supposed funeral. And the mere idea of returning to this place of memory and recollection of a fonder time was too painful to even consider.

Now, I had to deal with Mycroft, too. The simple fact he was sitting there across the room already led me to believe that this had been planned for a reason. And I had the worst feeling that this was all about Sherlock, particularly with what happened just earlier today-or what I assumed was today. Time had escaped me. I was quickly becoming familiar with losing a grasp on certain concepts…

Mycroft took another sip of his tea, not appearing to be in a rush. Yet, there was a dullness in his eyes that reminded me of a man who was dreading something to come. Mycroft knew this wasn't going to be pleasant, and he looked tired. Tired of it all.

It only made everything worse.

He placed his half-empty cup on the side table, folding his newspaper and putting it away for the moment as well. He sighed, clasping his hands together and tilting his head at me. A look of pity crossed his features; the way his frown turned sour and his eyes seemed to be wondering how someone could possibly be so deserving of this reluctant-dare I say-sympathy.

"I suspect you know why I'm here, so I won't bother boring you with the redundant details."

I never looked away from his disapproving gaze, only focusing on steadying my breathing which was proving more difficult the longer I associated my location with Baker Street...with Sherlock.

"I appreciate you being so thoughtful," I spoke with a cracked voice, though I meant it to be sarcastic. My throat was hoarse and sore, reminding me again of something I didn't want to remember. There was literally no place to look that didn't evoke the pain and loss I felt that day. And lately it was becoming obvious that I wasn't safe from my thoughts in my sleep either.

He didn't seem impressed with my answer. He gave me a wry smile in response, turning his nose up at me as he stared me down with the same condescendence I had come to associate him with. At least there was something that hadn't changed.

He sighed with that same tiredness again before beginning. "I'm deeply troubled, Mr. Watson," I felt the insult in his voice at the demoted nickname. "Deeply troubled," each word was said separately, as if he were speaking to a misbehaved dog. And that's exactly what I felt like.

The uneasy, compressed weight settled inside my ribcage and guilt was masked immediately with frustration. Why did he come here to scold me? To tell me that I was incapable of accomplishing anything asked of me? That I was weak and unstable? I already knew all of this. I bloody knew I was lost and alone. I bloody knew.

"Twice, now, you've visited my dear, dear brother. And twice, you've left on a stretcher," his expression hardened and I hoped he would just continue. "Watson," he tilted his head and with a trying sigh he added hesitantly, "John…" I hadn't heard my name in so long it felt like, especially from Mycroft. It was bizarre, and far from comforting which I suspected was the sole reason he decidedly slapped it onto the list of things to call me. "I understand your affliction. Sherlock was the closest thing to a friend for you and you held a deep admiration for him. You were able to see my brother as more than a high-functioning sociopath and he appreciated that. You were also there for his death and I can only imagine how horrible that experience must have been."

I had to unclench my fists for the painful locking of my joints. It was a convenient distraction for a small moment, but the feeling only lasted so long. Soon, I was gnawing on my bottom lip with uncontainable disquietness for what was surely to follow his prelude of sorts.

"But I have become painfully aware that these visits are affecting your well-being. Should you continue to see my brother, I worry you will cease to exist at all. Therefore, I have decided that you will not see him again. For your safety...and for his."

I should have felt relief. I should have breathed in for the first time and not felt the weight upon my chest and shoulders, crushing me between the hard surfaces of my grave and the even crueler surface of agonizing loss. I should have been anything but devastated. But I wasn't.

I threw the sheets away from me and looked at him with a wild, desperate look. I was sure I must have looked deranged, like a crazed, starved animal who had just been denied a rotting carcass of something long since dead.

"Mycroft, please! I'm fine!" I split my face into a grin that was as transparent as a pane of glass. "I'm fine! I'll get better!" I would have said anything to convince him to change his mind. I would have confessed to murder or made promises I knew I couldn't keep. I would have gotten on my knees and begged him had I the strength. But all I had was the plead in my eyes and the trembling voice of a lonely man who was afraid of losing his friend forever. "I beg you-I implore you… Give me one more chance."

Mycroft said nothing. He only lowered his chin almost to his chest, avoiding my eyes and looking somewhere between his clasped hands and the dusty floor. His eyelids were all I could see. His eyes were mere slivers, shaded away from my sight. He looked as if he were asleep, peaceful and dreaming.

I felt a rush of anger. An immense abundance of boldness overcame me, willing my body to mimic that of a confident individual. To mirror someone worthy of waking the slumbering. Someone who was deserving of attention.

I clenched my jaw, staring him down but only seeing a man caught in thoughts I did not share. Unconvinced. A man who was not going to let me see Sherlock again.

"I can't let you take him away from me. Not yet. Not now," I raised my voice, my throat clearing for the first time to allow an even voice to leave my lips. The mere idea of losing Sherlock, it was unacceptable. My body strengthened, like the threat of Sherlock being taken from me was a shot of adrenaline that sobered my fractured mind. I was going to pull myself together if it would give me another day. Another chance to make things right. To show Sherlock that everything was not over.

There was still a chance.

"Mycroft, I can't let you do this. And even if you tell me I can't see him, I will find a way. I promise you that," I'd like to say I kept my conviction as strong as it was a moment before, but I can't. Mycroft was telling me his best judgment, and honestly, it was probably the best thing for me to do. It was infinitely safer for me to avoid Sherlock in every possible way-especially physically. I was not an idiot. I knew the visits were having an effect on me. A horrible, terrible effect. But I would choose to risk my mental well-being in order to see my friend. For the unlikely circumstance that he might come back to his senses and become Sherlock once again.

I tried to appeal to Mycroft on a personal level. I knew he was worried for his brother, and now, it was apparent he was worried about me. Even if the motivation for his concern was not entirely justified, the fact remained the same.

"Sherlock is still there. He's still there," my words were emboldened with my genuine perceived candidness. I believed every word I said. I had _heard _Sherlock. He had spoken to me.

_Just let me die._

It was a cry for help. A shout in the dark. Yet, I had heard it. Sherlock was communicating with me. He must have been. It had undeniably been a moment of openness for him. Sherlock, who had been so cold and calculating, whispered such sad words to me in a moment of utter crisis? Surely even _he _could not conceal such desperation.

Even so, it was the look he gave me that convinced me Sherlock still existed. The look of defeat. The look of surrender and..._fear_. Sherlock did not often reveal these emotions to me. He hardly revealed any emotion to me, which is precisely why I remembered it so distinctly. That one night in Baskerville. Sherlock sat by the fire, hands tented beneath his chin with his glassy eyes mirroring the fire in the hearth. I remembered the way his lips quivered and pursed again and again, the way his nose crinkled in uncontrolled spasms. It was something I'd never forget. And I had seen it all over again in that cell.

"I know he's still in there somewhere, and I know I can make you see it, too."

At last, Mycroft looked up at me. His eyes were frozen in place over mine, and I couldn't tell if he was encouraged or discouraged by answer.

I held my breath, latching onto his gaze and not letting go. _Think of Sherlock. Think of Sherlock_, I thought to myself. I wasn't letting him go.

It seemed like minutes passed. Then possibly ten more. The staring had neither escalated or deflated. Mycroft was not letting go either.

If it hadn't been for the thumping of feet drumming up the stairs, I'm not sure how long Mycroft and I would have been there in that room. Perhaps night would have fallen and our eyes would burst red and tears would well.

The noise became more distracting the closer it became. Thankfully, Mycroft was the first to look away. He immediately used the chair arms to push himself to his seat, looking mildly surprised as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson poked her head in.

"Oh! John, you're awake!" Mrs. Hudson's matronly voice warmed my ears. It had been months since I'd last heard it or seen her welcoming smile. She ignored the trespassed look on Mycroft's face and pulled me into an affectionate embrace. I wrapped my arms around her back, noticing how she shook against me. Then I felt the dampness on my shoulder.

"Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?" I held her by the shoulders, craning my head forward to look at her wet eyes. She sniffled, putting on a brave smile despite the obvious sorrow.

"Oh, I'm fine, dearie," she assured unconvincingly with her sweet voice. "I'm just glad to be seeing you again," she admitted with another few tears. She turned around, wiping furiously at the evidence staining her cheeks, clearing her throat and in clear embarrassment from her behavior.

"I think I've got a handkerchief somewhere," I quickly added, reaching into my pocket and rummaging through. I pick out the cloth easily amongst the...the other things. "Dry your tears, Mrs. Hudson. You shouldn't be crying over me," I smiled for the first time in a long while. It was pleasant seeing an old friend again. I'd never forget how much I admire her, but the months had shut her from the present now. I had put her amongst the things of the past, but here she was, dabbing away at her eyes.

"You know I can't bear to sell it. This flat. I come up here to dust and clean, but I can never move one of Sherlock's experiments or even the furniture," she stopped the words with the handkerchief, holding it to her trembling lips and looking up at me with new tears already pouring. A suppressed whimper tugged at my heart strings and revived Mycroft from his amazement.

"Mrs. Hudson, I am deeply sorry for your troubles but, with all due respect, I must ask you to leave-"

"Mycroft!" I scolded. It was a habit. A necessary protective instinct for the older woman who was pouring her eyes out. I knew Sherlock would've done the same.

Mrs. Hudson made another whimper and I had to pull her into another hug until her cries soften and she at last overcame the turmoil assailing her emotions. She patted me appreciatively on the shoulder and we exchanged a silent understanding.

"Don't be a stranger, okay, dearie?" Mrs. Hudson resumed her usual shrill commands, quickly exiting the room-but not before she gave Mycroft a sideways glance that was less than impressed.

She shut the door behind herself and left Mycroft and I alone once again. We pick up right where we had left off, but I was hopeful that Mycroft would finally say something.

He didn't.

"One more chance. Please."

He didn't move to sit back down. Rather, he looked too ready to leave. He pocketed his hands, tipping his chin up and narrowing his eyes down at me. "Good bye, Watson."

My heart bled. Then it rose to my throat and I swallowed it down again and again. Every beat was devastating. I couldn't say a word. Not one syllable could escape me. All sense did instead.

"I will be watching the hospital closely. If you're ever fifty meters from it, I'll have you arrested. Understood?"

I stand my ground. As if there were any hope for me now, it was in remaining strong. But I knew there was no hope. There was nothing I could do. But I held my ground.

"On that note, I do hope we don't see each other again."

He strode across the floor, opening the door and closing it behind him smoothly. And just like that, my door to Sherlock was gone.

I hoped a window remained.

* * *

**AN: Holy Shirts, has it been that long since the last update? Well, here is the next chapter guys! Life has been busy. Unfortunately, in complete contrast to Sherlock's world, I have not had the privilege of being BORED BORED BORED. **

**R&amp;R! I love to hear your guys' comments! :3 And any questions, I'd love to answer! I have great plans for this story, but I'm sorry this one was so short and mostly filler. It'll start picking up soon *rubs hands together and grins maniacally.* We'll get to see Sneaky John in the next chapter. We'll see how ninja-like our dear Watson can get. **

**Thanks for reading! Please leave me some of your thoughts! I love nothing more than hearing from you guys! **

**~CJ&amp;J**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: My gosh, it's been exactly a year since I have updated this story and I am truly, truly sorry for anyone who has been waiting on me to post a new chapter! But, good thing is that the wait is over! I finally got around to writing this chapter and it, clearly, took much longer than I had intended. I hope you enjoy!**

**CJ&amp;J**

* * *

I AM SHERLOCKED

Chapter Seven:

I went home after that.

Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to call for a cab, though she adamantly reminded me she was, in fact, "not your housekeeper."

We talked shortly on the curb, listening to the bustling activity of the city and looking to the gray sky and wondering if rain was on the way. It was so hard to tell. The London sky was unchanging. Stoic, like a statue.

Or perhaps a high-functioning sociopath.

The cab ride was, gladly, uneventful. Though, I was still upset over the conversation I had with Mycroft. Everytime I relived that discussion, the more pressing my heartbeats became. I started to feel as if the walls were closing in on me; like I was trapped.

It may as well have been me in that padded cell.

Mycroft definitely held the advantage. His invasive-albeit, impressive-use of surveillance cameras and well-dressed spies made it difficult to get anywhere without the Holmes brother knowing about it. Even more frustrating was knowing all too well that Sherlock was locked up in an unmovable facility which meant Mycroft only needed to look in one area.

Needless to say, I wasn't going to be able to pull this off alone. I'd need help.

Lots of it.

I sighed upon shutting the front door, relieved to be back home and away from Baker Street.

I had shed my coat and dumped my wallet and phone onto the nearby desk on my way to the water closet. I felt...contaminated. Like I was wearing the skin of someone long since gone.

Even though London was far behind me, I could smell the smoky musk of the city lingering about me. I looked in the mirror and I caught sight of a strand of Mrs. Hudson's gray hair stuck to my jumper.

Unable to bear it anymore, I slipped off my shirt, watching my dull eyes shrink from what felt like a surge of panic. I raked my hands through my hair, yet the clammy feeling over my chest never left.

Without a second to waste, I started the shower, digging myself out from the rest of my clothes, humming periodically to keep myself from screaming.

I didn't want to go back there. I didn't want to be that person. Not _that_ person. The one who stood there, watching Sherlock on that rooftop.

I felt so dirty.

The sensation mimicked that of being caked in blood too well. Yet, even with no blood there, I couldn't stop my hands from rubbing frantically at my arms, my neck, my face.

Anywhere that his blood had splattered.

Steam filled the room, and I knew the water was still too hot to be comfortable, but I couldn't wait. I couldn't physically nor mentally contain the horror building inside my mind. I had to get rid of it. Now.

I stepped in, foot turning an angry shade of red at the extreme heat. I didn't even react. I didn't care. My back bore the brunt of the heat, feeling like blisters would form, and I just stood there.

I just stood there, running my hands over my crossed arms again and again and again. Staring at my scarlet feet, I watched the water wash it all away.

Late in the afternoon, the weather, at last, chose an objective and diligently slaved away to reach it; to flood the streets of England. A heavy downpour quickly became the result of a drowsy drizzle earlier in the day, and it didn't appear as if the rain had any intention of stopping.

I didn't plan on leaving the quiet solitude of my apartment anyway, but the monotonous drone of the drops of rain against the hard pavement and roof became a reminder of the silent life I was living.

A life of feeble existence.

Wasting away.

I gave myself a minute more to gaze out into the hazy, vast openness outside, then pulled the curtains close.

The scent of damp leaves invaded my mind regardless of the fact I had barricaded myself indoors. I kept rubbing my arms, as if rain had soaked through my clothes. It felt dank and uncomfortable, the heaviness of swollen particles in the air mixing with my breath…

But none of that was real.

None of this could be real. I couldn't feel the rain. There was no blood. Sherlock didn't die.

Yet, every night, all I see is Sherlock's body. Dead.

I shuddered thinking about it. _Was I sick? Was I a horrible person for imagining my best friend as a corpse on the ground with his head smashed in? Was I wrong for wishing it could be reality? For wishing Sherlock really was dead? For wishing that I could finally sleep at night and know in my heart that Sherlock was gone and that I could wake up the next day and continue living?_

Was I crazy for resenting the fact he was still breathing?

But the more I dwelled on the fact, the more uncertain I became. Uncertain that it was Sherlock's fault. Unsure that it was anyone's fault but my own.

The man huddled away in the psych ward, the one who resembled Sherlock so much, so painfully much, was right. I was lost. I was so bloody lost without him.

Every waking moment of my miserable lingering since that day, has been spent thinking about _him_. Sherlock. About his quick, witty insults. About his careless appearance, and his keen, icy eyes and the way they'd crinkle just ever so subtly in approval when his freakishly precise predictions would evoke a gasp of surprise. About how he tried to hide his smirk when he knew I'd tag along, no matter how absurd things became.

About how he'd irritate me ceaselessly but always have my back.

Always.

I dragged my hands over my pallid face and sighed. A long, soul-searching sigh.

The rain outside poured away.

I had a few phone calls to make.

I turned the paper cup in my hands, enjoying the feeling of warmth spreading to my fingertips.

The gloomy weather had not passed and day was quickly becoming evening.

I glanced at my watch for the umpteenth time. Only five minutes had passed, but it felt like an eternity.

The door of the cafe opened with the jingle of small, silver bells. My eyes darted to the entrance, chest filling with relief and then crashing with disappointment at the sight of an annoyed businesswoman. She groaned disapprovingly as her umbrella made a puddle on the floor.

Feeling more dejected than I would've liked to admit, I took a sip of coffee and tried to concentrate on preparing myself for what was about to happen. I had already gone over every scenario in my head at least a thousand times, but the pessimist in me could not be satisfied.

There were three most likely possibilities: he would accept, he wouldn't accept, or he would think I'm a bloody insane person and make sure no one would help me.

There was also a fourth possibility, one I had purposely ignored. I prayed the conversation would not fall into this category as it involved the eldest Holmes brother.

I didn't necessarily enjoy Mycroft as a person or even a thought, but I dared not underestimate him. If it so happened that Mycroft had contacted-

As soon as the prickling fear seized my senses, the bells chimed and the sound of rain pounding against the sidewalk increased in clarity.

I furtively glanced around my shoulder to catch a glimpse of who had just entered.

It was Lestrade.

I checked my watch.

Ten minutes late.

The graying Detective Inspector looked nervously around the interior of the room. His dark brown eyes darted to every face he could immediately see and froze when he spotted me.

It wasn't difficult to interpret the hesitation in his body language, but after another moment of tense silence, he treaded as casually as he could manage over to the seat opposite of mine.

It was when he sat down and we stared at each other for a few seconds more that I noticed how long it had been since I had last seen him. His hair had more flecks of silver along his hairline than I remembered and the wrinkles between his brows seemed more severe.

He must have been looking at me the same way for the aforementioned wrinkles crinkled in scrutiny and the corners of his thin mouth dived. "Jesus, John, you look bloody awful!"

"It's great to see you, too," I muttered with annoyance.

"I'm sorry," he added. "I just...I hardly recognized you when I walked in. You been doing okay?"

I almost laughed at his innocent question, but I was too tense to even move. "Lestrade, I have something very important I need to do and I need your help to do it."

"You sounded pretty urgent on the phone. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No. Not exactly," I thought this would be so much easier. I thought I could just spit out the words and be strong, but the truth was I needed Lestrade's help. Desperately. Without it, I doubt I'd be able to pull this off.

He looked so concerned, but I didn't need pity. I needed to seem as functionable and sane as I could. I needed his trust and allegiance. Not his criticism.

"John?"

"Oh, sorry. Did you say something?"

Lestrade peered at me with a sympathetic gaze and I could feel my blood running cold. "I came here because you said you needed to talk to me. I just want you to know that I'm here and I'm ready to listen. Don't worry about me, just say what you have to. Okay?"

I was stunned. I always believed Lestrade to be a decent man, but never had I imagined something like this. I didn't know what to say, so I settled with an uncomfortable "okay…"

It must have been too awkward to live up to Lestrade's standards and he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together like some therapist.

"Depression is a touchy subject, but no one should ever be afraid to admit it-"

"I'm not depressed!"

The entire cafe fell silent. Lestrade was looking at me with a blanched face.

I stopped pressing my hands onto the table and hid them in my lap instead and looked somewhere I didn't feel so judged. "I'm not…" I said quietly. "I didn't call you here to be diagnosed," I breathed between clenched teeth.

Lestrade finished flashing a sheepish smile in the direction of watching faces. He looked back with a more solemn gaze, just an inkling of embarrassment. "Sorry," his voice was low.

I stole a few seconds more, calming the bristling of the muscles along my spine. "I need a favour. A huge one."

The Detective Inspector did not say a word, but I knew there were doubts bouncing around in his head.

If Mycroft had said anything to Lestrade, I was certain a look of realization would have struck the man's features. Yet, there was nothing there to see except for dread and anxiety.

"I need a distraction."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "Like...a hobby?"

I swore I could feel the circles under my eyes sink lower into my flesh. "No." More confusion. "I need a diversion." Still confused. "A performance."

At last the graying man seemed to grasp the tiniest bit of understanding. "What exactly are you planning on doing?"

It was now or never. No matter how tight my stomach twisted at the thought of Mycroft listening in or finding out about my one chance to see _him_, I had to trust in the person before me. In Lestrade. There was no other way.

"Sherlock is alive."

Everything was still, frozen in place like a picture. We held our gazes; Lestrade's brown eyes wide with incredulity and shock clashing against my certainty.

We still did not speak, even as Lestrade opened and closed his mouth several times, always losing his words. His brows furled over his eyes, his scrutiny clear as he rummaged through the shelves, looking for a shred of a lie in my eyes. But he could find none.

"What?" Is all he managed to croak.

"Sherlock survived. His funeral was just a facade. A device Mycroft used to hide…" my voice trailed off. I couldn't bring myself to explain the condition of Sherlock's mind. I couldn't even taste the words to begin to describe it.

Lestrade didn't notice. I could tell he was too stunned by the fact the consulting detective was still breathing.

"All this time…" he murmured, his eyes tracing the grains of the wood table as if he were reading scripture. "I can't believe it."

"He's alive," I pressed the matter onwards. I needed to get him back on track. "I need your help to contact him."

Lestrade laughed. Out of astonishment or happiness, I was too anxious to tell. "Why do you need help to contact him? Where is he?"

"He's…" I dreaded the words. "He's in the Mental Institute."

"The Mental Institute? What-" his eyes widened. "Did he… damage…?"

"I don't know," I blurted out. I hated the idea of seeming curt, and I sympathized with him. I remembered all too clearly the shock and confusion and anger I felt when Mycroft pulled me aside that day. "All I know is that I need to see him again. The problem is Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" Lestrade spoke the name with unfondness, giving me hope. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"He told me he'd arrest me if I went near Sherlock," I could feel my blood boil. "The details of why aren't important," I added quickly. The last thing I needed was for Lestrade to think I was as weak as Mycroft perceived me to be.

Though, I couldn't deny that perhaps he was right.

"He's really alive," he leaned back in his chair, the corners of his lips pulled up in a smile. Somehow, I could tell it was the first for a long time.

"Yes."

My heart thumped loudly in my chest and I felt small. Shrinking smaller and smaller beneath Lestrade's gaze. There was nothing more desperate than clinging on to hope by a thin, thin thread that could be severed by just one word.

I was holding on tight. So, so tightly. Lestrade knew.

But unlike Mycroft, Lestrade had a different wiring. He was not built on practicality and sensibility. Those were not the foundations on which he placed his priorities. No. Lestrade was not Mycroft.

And he was not me. He did not have a deep understanding of Sherlock. Of me. He did not comprehend our companionship or the way we worked. Though frustrated and condescended by the arrogance of Sherlock more than once, he never failed to see him as a friend. And by extension, he respected me. But he would never have made some of the choices I made.

I could barely stand it any longer. I felt like a child awaiting the final say of his parent.

The final say was law.

Lestrade breathed in deeply, dropping his gaze and raising his eyebrows as if to shrug. To throw sensibility to the wind.

"What did you have in mind?"

I grinned. I actually grinned. "Thank you."

* * *

**The next chapter should not take as long to be posted and will have much more excitement, I promise! **

**Don't forget to R&amp;R! I love reading your comments and I do take suggestions to heart!**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Ta daa! Thought I owed you guys a long and more exciting chapter! I included a little reference to "The Abominable Bride"! See if you can find it ;)**  
**Hope you guys enjoy! Don't forget to R&amp;R!**

**CJ&amp;J**

* * *

I AM SHERLOCKED:

Chapter Eight

It was dark when I returned to my apartment. The rain had developed into a mist and it made the outside world foreboding and hazy.

My conversation with Lestrade had lasted longer than I had expected; we had much to discuss. Even so, the Detective Inspector insisted on asking questions that didn't relate to what I considered as a priority.

We would be in the midst of discussing some obstacle in the way and some methods to resolving it and he'd interrupt with random inquiries of what I was doing now. Was I doing well? _Do_ you have any hobbies? Was I planning on taking a vacation? He informed me that they did wonders for stress.

When I felt certain we both had an understanding of what the plan was the street lights shone brightly, their rays reflected in the drops of rain stuck to the window pane in a mosaic-like brilliance. A siren howled in the distance.

I reminded him to contact Molly before we departed. The risk of Mycroft tapping my phone was too great and I knew she'd be more than happy to help.

On that note, Lestrade and I rose from our seats and in that moment of finality, we both awkwardly expected to shake hands as one does at the end of a business deal. I extended my arm out, felt Lestrade's fingers close around mine, and was surprised when he tugged me forward to clap a hand on my shoulder. I gingerly reciprocated, barely touching the fabric of his charcoal grey suit.

When we stepped back and he was smiling with encouragement. "We're friends, John," and he made a little shrug, "have been for a while."

I said nothing. Too bewildered by the situation.

He seemed to understand and chuckled quietly. "I'm just saying you can count on me, okay?"

"Thank you."

Soon after we left out separate ways.

Now, sitting alone in the warm glow of the aged ceiling light, I imagined tomorrow.

My stomach fluttered at all the plausible outcomes-most of which I did not consider desirable. So many variables in one muddled equation.

I just hoped the pieces fit.

I felt drained and hollow. I had interacted with others more today than in the past month. I forgot how taxing it was on the mind. To soak in every voice and every bat of the eye. To wonder what those words meant and why it was said with such an expression. To know the how, the when, and the why. To connect the dots and form a response.

It was so much easier when the only voice you had to listen to was your own.

"Precisely."

My heart skipped a beat.

Snapping my head to my right it took everything I had not to cry out at the mussy-haired detective sitting next to me.

Sherlock did not look amused. "Come now, John. This is hardly something to gawk at. You can't expect to say anything intelligent when your mouth is hanging open like that." At this, the consulting detective launched to his feet in one single movement. His tall legs carried his lanky form all the way to the wall where he sharply turned on his heel to face the bed and, still, flabbergasted me.

I could tell he was annoyed when I made no move to say or do anything, but all I could do was stare. Stare into those blue eyes and search for my reflection. _Visions didn't have reflections...did they? _

"If you're wondering if you've gone crazy, the answer is questionable." Sherlock added with a smug smirk, just barely crinkling his azure eyes. "And if you need some reassurance, yes; I am not here."

I felt my heart lurch. I wanted to reach out to him and berate him for being such a sodding arse, but I knew his words were true. I could not touch him. Could not taste the satisfaction of my knuckles burying into the side of his thin face.

"Then I'm pretty sure my sanity is nonexistent," I whispered, clutching my hair as my body coiled in on itself, pressing my elbows into my thighs in a failed attempt to wake myself from whatever this was.

I concentrated on my breathing, how shattered it was. It felt like sobbing but no tears ever came. There was only gasping and choking on the air shared between myself and _him._

I swear I could smell his cheap shampoo.

I was too focused to realize two long and narrow shoes stepped into view with my own. I felt his breath as he leaned over, leveling his gaze with my downturned stare. Even now, I could feel him reading me.

"I may not be here," his deep voice ghosted over my brow. I wanted to look up, see his eyes, but I could not bring myself to slip into this dream. This illusion. "But…"

I felt it. Felt his finger press against my forehead, right between the eyes. He pushed with enough pressure my head tilted to alleviate it. I looked upon his haphazardly tied scarf instead.

"I'm in _here._"

My eyes stung with oncoming tears and I opened my mouth to speak, wildly searching for his eyes, but he was gone. Gone without a trace.

I felt a rush of emotions. Sorrow, longing, anger. I hated myself for not cherishing the image of his familiar face, that I was too weak to bear his presence and too pathetic to bear his absence. That I could not be satisfied by mere memory.

I need him. My friend. Sherlock, here. Really here.

I let the tears wade on the rims of my eyes, let the frustration and anxiety swirl inside me like a force to be reckoned with. _I _am _a force to be reckoned with. _

Tomorrow, I would prove it. To Mycroft, to myself. Even to Sherlock.

"I know you're here," I could barely hear the words come out, but they resonated deep in my throat, to every bone in my body. "I know you are."

The exhaustion waned and the feeling of a new determination awoke in its place, fueled by one single fact that was undeniably, unmistakably true.

_You haven't left. _I snatched my coat from the bedpost,checking the contents of its pocket and reassured by the familiar feel of what I needed, and grabbed my cane.

I went to the door and opened it wide, staring down the obscured landscape. I looked to the sky and waited for the clouds to clear and the moon to glow, closing the door and pulling the lapels of my coat closer together.

You never did.

Taking a deep breath, I took the device out of my pocket and I clicked record.

I was somewhere familiar. That much was certain.

Yes.

I had seen this place before. Yet, something was off.

I felt the wind thread through my hair, tickling my skin with the sharp note of a wintery afternoon. I was high up.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, the harsh, white light of the sun blinding me from straight ahead. I kept holding my hand out to block its powerful glare, but to no avail.

Frustrated, and even a bit frightened, I began to move sideways, hoping I could dim the bright light even a little. It seemed as if someone was reflecting the sun off a mirror, following my every movement with precise aim at my squinting, watering eyes. It was even painful.

I did not shout for help. For some reason, the thought was discarded as soon as I began chasing its tail. All I managed to do was make groans of displeasure as the intense white assaulted my vision.

I stepped more to the right, at first hesitantly, then with wide strides. Nothing seemed to work. I then began to run, eyes runny and forehead shiny with panic. I ran with my arms cradling my face, but still the horrible light came through.

I started to hyperventilate, I could feel my lungs burn and swell. I kept running and running until suddenly my outstretched foot stepped onto nothing. I knew I was going to fall to my death without even opening my eyes. I could sense it; the wind funneling down my body, pulling down like a vacuum.

That's when I felt something grab the front of my shirt, holding me where I was. I scrabbled to find my footing, but I was kept there with one foot desperately clamped onto the edge and one foot dangling helplessly.

"Look at me."

That baritone.

I had forgotten about sight entirely. I removed my arms, slowly, from my face and found that I could see my jumper's sleeves, the hand gripping the front of the patterned cloth, and the consulting detective's silhouette, effectively blocking the sun.

I squinted, trying to see his expression-anything-but I could not. In some mystical and diabolical way that does not exist in nature, Sherlock's face was hidden and his fisted hand was the only thing I could see clearly against the glowing white behind him.

_Sherlock? _I wanted to exclaim, but I knew I could not. I could not speak for the same reason I could not see Sherlock's face. Strange laws for a strange place.

Instead, I reached out to grab onto his wrist, clinging onto any support I could find in my perilous position. Yet even more frightening, my hands appeared before me swinging fruitlessly to reach Sherlock who remained _just_ out of reach. I could not graze his knuckle with my fingertip, but I could feel the stretching fabric milimeters away.

"Look at _me_," he repeated, an iciness to his tone.

I could do nothing but obey, helplessly held where I was, hoping to God my foot would not slip. The wind seemed to pick up.

"You know where you are."

It was not a question, and suddenly, it didn't need to be. The horrible white light had vanished and I could see with unbelievable vividness that I was… I was on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

I shook my head furiously, pleading with Sherlock. I knew what was going to happen and my stomach flipped at the thought.

His brown curls moved with the wind, his eyes matching the color of the sky. "Good-bye, John."

He let go.

I awoke just before my body hit the ground.

Adrenaline was rushing through my veins, my mind a whirl of emotions and overloaded senses. I could not focus my sight on a single object. Bright spots were distracting my vision. Bright spots like I had been staring at the sun.

It was then that I noticed two things. First, my alarm was going off. Second, tears were streaming down my face.

Hearing the monotonous beeping and feeling the cool air stick to the trails down my face gave me a sense of much needed comfort. I sat still for a minute or two with eyes closed, calming down as the beeping continued.

My fingers curled around the fabric of the sheets, grounding myself against the fading sensation of plummeting endlessly.

Once I felt better, I reached over and shut off the alarm and wiped the remaining tears away with the back of my hand. I already felt tired.

But there was no time to feel tired.

Sighing heavily, I cleared my mind as much as I could and grabbed my cane, and coat, to disappear into the bathroom.

I took a cold shower, got dressed and looked myself in the bloodshot eyes. It was nearly time.

So much depended on the next hour, and so many things could go wrong.

I stood there, unmoving and unsure of what to feel.

I would've given myself another encouraging speech, but I figured I'd spare Mycroft the humility. Besides, I had some other surprises in mind for him.

I reached into my coat pocket and retrieved the device I had used the night before. It was simple, but it'd do the job.

I had cracked the window open before I had gone to sleep. The birds chirping outside beckoned me out. _I won't disappoint them._

Carefully, I placed the object in the sink basin where I knew it wouldn't move.

I looked up once more, one final time. Dull blond hair. Gray eyes. Pale skin that sunk in too deep at the hollows of my cheeks. Me. In the near future, I hoped to see a success. Failure was becoming all too familiar.

"Let's start the day off right," I said to myself.

I pressed the play button, waiting for the cue.

"With a little bit of sunshine," the recording played.

I moved to the window, pushing the pane up the remainder of the way, the wood creaking from all the years of misuse. I breathed in, tasting the fresh air in all its glory. I waited.

"Stubborn thing…" the recording muttered.

I smiled at that. Mycroft would appreciate the thought put into this. Then again, maybe not.

I lifted one leg out the window, the sill giving another creak. I straddled the board for a moment, spotting the ground before moving my body under the pane of glass followed by my other leg. I did not hesitate before dropping to the ground, collecting my cane that I threw out after starting the shower.

As I moved away from the apartment to the road, I listened for the next line of the dialog. I grinned as it came.

"Ah. Isn't that _much_ better."

I walked down to the next street over where I knew Mycroft's surveillance would be out of range. Lestrade was there in his car waiting for me.

I opened the rear door, climbing in and depositing my cane on the car floor. Molly greeted me with a wide smile.

"You look stronger, John!" she said in her soft voice, helping me shed my coat as Lestrade began to pull out of the driveway.

"Thanks," I flashed her a smile. I was too nervous to even say anything more.

"Are you going to be ready by the time we get there?" Lestrade sounded as nervous as I did. It was understandable. He could get into a lot of trouble if things went badly.

"Yes. I've got everything planned out," I reassured him. Now if only I could reassure myself…

"John? Your clothes," Molly added, her wide eyes examining my face with concern.

"Sorry," I cleared my throat. There was no time to think. No time to delay. Every second counted.

I took off my shirt next. Molly had to help me with my pants, much to my chagrin. My limp had not lessened since I was let out of hospital and the cramped room of the back seats did not help, either. Thankfully, Molly had shielded us from any possible wandering eyes by hanging clothes in front of the back windows. Even so, I knew she was as uncomfortable as I was through this process. I reminded myself to thank her extensively after this.

"Here you go," she handed me some neatly folded clothes. She wouldn't look me in the eye and her face was slightly red. I needed to thank her _profusely_.

"But first, we need to get you fitted."

From the car floor she retrieved what looked like some medieval contraption. It was all metal, screws, and pain. If I hadn't known what it was, I would have been very fearful. Or, I should say _more_ fearful.

"I was only able to get an older model without people noticing. It should work all the same, though," Molly bent the brace at its joint, fiddling with the straps to undo them before she gestured for me to give her my leg.

I twisted my body to face her, using my hands to help guide my leg onto her lap. It was awkward and uncomfortable with my back pressed up against the car side, but it was necessary.

She slipped my foot through the first strap and the rest of my leg followed suit. It continued all the way to my mid-upper thigh. I could already tell it would weigh a lot, but I didn't need another thing to worry about. Not now.

She strapped me in, starting with the band across my shin and made her way up to the one around my thigh. Once that was done, she began adjusting the knee band and the rods that ran through each side.

She looked over everything once more and smiled when she found nothing. "You're all strapped in."

"Thanks," I took the clothes and slipped on the pants first.

"Please be careful with those," Lestrade blurted. "They've got sentimental value. I've kept them since my patrolling days."

He was referring to the clothes I was buttoning up. His old officer uniform for Scotland Yard. Black slacks with a pressed, white shirt. All complete with the black vest, black tie, walkie-talkie, and black cap with the checkered band. The insignia gleamed like it was brand new. Obviously, Lestrade was very fond of it, if his constant glances weren't a good enough indication.

"I'll be careful. You'll get it all back in the same condition as it is now," I promised. He seemed to take little comfort in my words though.

"Good," he frowned.

"Don't look!" Molly exclaimed as I was just about to turn my head. Out of my periphery I could tell her blurred hands were furiously buttoning up my shirt over her tightly wrapped chest. She had really taken her role to heart. "Okay."

She slipped her sleeves through my coat next before tying her brown hair tightly behind her head. "Help me with this, would you?" She handed me the wig cap.

As she held her hair in place, I dragged the cap from the back of her neck over to her forehead. She grimaced in discomfort as the cap gripped to her scalp tightly. "Oh, how do people do this," she muttered under her breath to no one in particular.

I rearranged myself in my seat to face forward again, watching as she delved into her bag and procured a blond wig that closely resembled my own unkempt hair.

She put it on, fastening it in place with hair pins. When she was done, she sat up straight and used a hand mirror to correct any wandering strands.

She giggled at her reflection. "I make a convincing man, don't I?"

I didn't know what to say, so I just tried my best to smile. Between everything I was experiencing at that moment and this, I could barely hold it together. Strangely enough, though, I found her statement to be true. I didn't find it hard to imagine Molly as a man in an alternative world. Perhaps sometime in the 1800s.

"We're nearly there. Everyone ready?" Lestrade peered up at the rearview mirror.

I felt my blood rush to my head, filling my ears with a thrum that set my nerves on edge.

"What room is he in?" I was almost breathless.

"Mycroft moved him to Cell 203. There was no way to get the key without Mycroft knowing about it… I'm sorry."

"That's fine. Thank you, Molly," I took her hand and smiled despite my unease. She had risked herself for this. I knew I could always count on her.

She seemed to appreciate the gesture and brightened up immediately.

"Remember to keep your head down and don't forget to limp," I told her as Lestrade began to pull to the curb. We were three streets down, next to a construction site where a conveniently placed dumpster blocked the camera's view. I had noticed it the day before in the cafe while waiting for Lestrade.

I guessed good things really did come to those who waited.

"Good luck," I squeezed her hand gently and she squeezed back, a look of focus in her kind eyes. She reached for the car door handle and took the cane with her.

"Good luck, John," she smiled. "Tell Sherlock that I said 'hi'." With that she shut the car door and made her way to the sidewalk. We watched as her form grew smaller in the distance.

I pushed open the door and hesitantly stepped out, feeling the true weight of the equipment on my leg for the first time. It was going to take some getting used to, but I didn't think it was going to be a problem. That is, until I took a step.

The sharp squeak of the brace joint might as well have been a gunshot. It was unmistakeable and hard to ignore. I prayed it was because of the gear's neglected state. That perhaps if I warmed it up it would soften or disappear entirely. Yet, as I took two more steps to reach for the passenger door handle, they sounded _louder._

Lestrade must have sensed something was wrong. He looked up at me with a heightened sense of dread, a shared stare of apprehension.

"It squeaks," I swallowed with difficulty. My throat was dry.

Lestrade bit his lip. "Play it off as squeaky shoes?" he suggested, but he and I both knew attracting _any _kind of attention was attracting too much attention. "Maybe we have time to buy WD-40 or wax or-"

"It's too late. Molly's nearly there," I shuddered uncontrollably. There was no turning back. If we called Molly back now, Mycroft would know it was all a ploy. Every tactic I had used would be obsolete and the chances of getting into that Institute would vanish. I had to act. Now.

Lestrade said nothing. He didn't have to. There was nothing to do but wait and hope for the best.

Hope for a scrap of the best.

We trained our eyes on Molly's shrinking form. We could see her climbing the steps of the Mental Institute. No one had approached her and everything was going as planned.

As soon as she made it inside, we waited a moment or two before starting the car and making our way towards her.

Lestrade parked the car. "Ready?"

"Ready," I breathed.

He and I exited the vehicle. Lestrade jogged up the steps, acting as he normally would when apprehending someone who was trespassing.

I struggled to keep pace, the jolting squeals of the brace setting my teeth on edge. It was difficult finding balance with the weight dragging my leg down, and even more difficult climbing the stairs.

Lestrade was near the top before he glanced over his shoulder at me. He knew he couldn't dawdle for long-if Mycroft hadn't been watching then, he was certainly watching now.

"C'mon, man!" Lestrade shouted down at me in an authoritative bark. "Move!"

I grit my teeth and forced my knee to raise, pumping one leg after another as I closed the distance between us. Lestrade slapped me on the back as I passed him. It was meant to convey his displeasure, but I knew he was secretly encouraging me. _God, I could use every encouragement I could get…_

Together, we pushed open the Institution doors like a rehearsed entrance, Lestrade's coat billowing out behind him and his badge out faster than a cowboy could draw his gun.

"Scotland Yard!" He announced with a stern gaze. It was impressive to see the changes he made when on the job rather than having coffee in the cafe. I always knew Lestrade took pride in his job. _It'd be in everyone's best interest if I didn't ruin his uniform. _

"What's going on?" a man at the desk questioned, his expression blank.

I looked over and saw Molly standing with two other men. They looked like guards.

"We were sent here to escort this man out," Lestrade extended a pointed finger in Molly's direction, swiftly taking her by the arm and muttering "if you'll come with me, please."

Molly put on a good show, resisting a little but letting herself be dragged away. She made sure she rested her weight on the cane. Her display was convincing in real life, I could imagine it being even more so on camera. Or so I hoped.

The receptionist was too stunned to even speak. He looked at the guards with a quizzical expression but no one objected.

It was my part.

"Did you see anyone come in with this man?" it was easy to fake urgency when your heart was banging against your chest.

"Er, no, I don't recall seeing anyone-"

"Are you absolutely certain? They may have entered separately. Please, this is vitally important!"

"I, uh-"

"If you don't mind, I'd like to check the premise just incase," I started to walk off, cringing slightly at the creak at my knee.

"No one is allowed back there-"

"I am here to apprehend a suspect who has violated the law. Or in other words, I am here to do my job! Now, please, keep watch on the entrance and do not allow anyone back here until I clear the vicinity!"

The receptionist nodded quickly and I felt a small glimmer of hope force air into my lungs.

"At least let security accompany-"

"There's no need," I heard my voice slip into its military format. Curt and firm. "Backup is already on the way and I've lost enough time talking. Lock all the exits but leave the wings open so I can get through." I jogged my way down the corridor, not even caring the brace squeaked every other step or that eventually they'd figure it out.

I was almost there.

I slowed as I approached the patient's wing, anxiety welling in the pit of my stomach. The door had to be unlocked. It _had_ to be.

I took a deep breath, my blood warm and pooling in my chest. I stretched my hand out and felt the cool metal between my fingers. I pushed down.

Something buzzed and clicked.

The door opened.

I couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief, adrenaline tingling in every molecule of my body.

I rushed forwards, counting down the doors. 105…

I'm almost there, Sherlock.

137…

It felt like years since I had last spoken with him… What if it didn't end well?

158…

What am I going to say?

179…

What will _he _say?

199...

Another set of doors awaited me. I opened them with ease.

200...

What if this is the last time?

201…

It is the last time…

202…

Mycroft will never let me get this chance again…

203…

So make it count.

I stopped before the gray door. Paint was peeling from the top right corner but the intricate bolt system looked brand new. It looked untouchable.

A square was cut out in the middle of the top half of the door and a rusty metal grate was placed over it. About a foot below that, a slot was installed with a curved end on the outside. Probably to prevent whoever was kept in that godforsaken room from grabbing onto anything as it passed the door.

I slowed my breath. It wasn't because I was calm. It was very much the opposite. I feared so much. And so much could happen.

Yet, perhaps the most ominous thing about this now was that I could not hear a thing. Nothing except for my own presence.

Nothing.

I inched towards the door. Towards whatever lived inside.

The closer I crept, the more wall I could see. The more floor. The bed. All empty.

I was a foot away from it now. I could see every scratch on the gray cement blocks. Every bump and divot. But there was no one there.

I gazed loathingly into that empty block because I knew he was playing another game. Waiting for me to press my nose up against the glass before he made his presence known. To push me out of comfort as far as one could get. To set every nerve on edge and strip of all securities.

I shouldn't do it.

But I have to.

There was no time to wait and see whose patience would wane first. Time was not a luxury I could afford.

So I did as he wanted. I put my face an inch from the grating, looked straight into the room with eyes full and wide. I clenched my jaw shut, trying to prepare myself not to flinch, not to give him any enjoyment in seeing me squirm.

And I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Absolutely nothing.

"Sherlock?" my voice was raspy. Strained.

There was no response.

I bit down on my tongue, fending off panic as long as I could, but it was a losing battle.

"Sherlock." I hated how broken I sounded.

So this was it.

A trick.

I should have known Mycroft would do something like this. Of course he knew Molly would have wanted to help. All he had to do was convince her Sherlock was in the wrong room.

How could I be so stupid.

If it hadn't been for the brace, I would have collapsed to my knees. I would have thrown my head against the gray door. Over, and over, and over. Would have banged my fists against the door until my knuckles split and tore open. Until I could feel nothing more. Screamed until my voice gave way, and then screamed some more.

But here I was. Standing. Alone.

Lestrade and Molly were waiting on me and I knew Mycroft would be here any second. I should spare them from the hideousness that is rightfully mine to claim. A chaos that was my own burden.

The brace was heavier now than ever. I didn't have the strength to lift my leg, so I just dragged it towards the door. That awful squeaking my only company.

I pushed my shoulder against the door as I turned the knob, but something had gone terribly wrong.

It wouldn't open.

All panic took over as I tried the door again and again, each time I was unable to open it.

"Come on, come on!" I pounded my fist on the metal surface. "Open the door!"

"It doesn't open until I say it opens."

I froze.

In that very moment, I think I would have preferred Mycroft.

* * *

**DUN DUN DUNNN! More to come~**


	9. Chapter 9

I could feel the knobs jutting into the palms of my hands and the crooks of my knuckles. I could feel the way it would toy with my hope with the small jiggle I could force out of it. It's all I wanted to feel. All I wanted, was for these knobs to turn and the doors to shut it all out.

I could catch the faintest line of light splitting the doors apart. I moved my face towards it and breathed in like I was drowning and this little divide was my only source of air.

"Turn around."

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against the cool, hard metal.

My body jumped at the sound of a deliberate step.

"_Face me_."

"I..I don't think I can," I whispered through the crack.

"Can't?" Another step. "Or _won't_?"

"Oh god," I whimpered, my throat closing up in the all too familiar way. I couldn't break down now. Not now. "Please, open the doors."

"They're watching."

I could see the gesture even with my back turned. I could just sense it. I followed it to the ceiling. Tucked away in a corner with a solid, red dot, a camera stared back at me.

"They're standing right outside that door, but they're not coming to rescue you."

My stare flitted to the narrow split, straining to see anything beyond. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," the words barely made a sound.

"Do you know why, John?"

"Please-"

"Because I haven't given them permission. And they won't get it unless you _**show me your face**__!_"

The utter intensity of the outburst pulled a sob from my throat. I didn't want to turn around, _God I didn't want to_, but I couldn't run either.

I loosened my grip on the handles slowly, pain spidering through the joints in my hands, and even more slowly, I turned my body but kept my eyes to the ground.

I hoped they were watching this now; I needed to know someone was watching. I needed to know I wasn't entirely alone with _him_.

"Look at me."

I started to shake my head but I stopped, petrified to know what would happen should I refuse-but it was too late. His quick eyes had already seen it.

"_Look at me!_" Spittle flew out from his parched lips and he rushed forward like an animal.

I flinched like he breathed fire. My back slammed against the door, almost losing my balance despite the contraption holding me up. "Alright!" I practically screamed.

He was close enough now I could see both his feet were encased in cheap slippers. A dingy dullness was crusted around the toes almost as if he had been dragging his feet, or someone else had been for him.

The sweatpants they gave him were too short for his lanky build and his bare ankles peeked out from under the hems. The right one looked swollen and purple.

The rest of him was covered in a thin, ragged robe, loosely cinched around his almost emaciated waist. The white t-shirt drowned him with no flesh to cling to.

Scratchy patches of hair started to appear up his neck. Dark, curly hair hung just above his shoulders and framed the face of a skeleton.

A crown of gauze.

And in those sunken sockets, two piercing eyes stared fixedly at my face, gleaming at every inkling of terror I struggled to hold back.

"Sherlock…" my voice broke.

He sneered and the light in his eyes grew malevolent. "_John_," his lips curled. He cocked his head to one side, "you seem scared."

I wasn't going to grant him an answer because I knew I couldn't lie and get away with it. Every molecule in my body told me I was terrified.

My heart banged against my chest like bullets from the chamber. Every hair stood on end. Every breath had to be taken sparingly-and quickly-because every scenario my mind raced through was more horrifying than the last.

"No answer?" Sherlock pouted his lips, pushing his high-arched brows together. "No matter. I _know_ you are."

His slippers smacked against the ground as he began to approach. Each step was small, considering how long his strides could be, but the distance between us closed too rapidly for me regardless. I was going to be trapped.

As he came forward, I shuffled to the side. My back never left the solid wall and my eyes matched his unblinking gaze.

I rounded the corner and knew he had caught on to my plan.

Something blurred across my vision and pushed the air right beside my ear. A hard smack deafened me for an instant. I saw the slipper drop to the floor.

He tutted and waggled a finger. "I heard the squeak as soon as you came in. Take it off."

I could taste my humility. "I won't be able to stand-"

"I don't mind. _Really._"

I felt the hot swell of anger and embarrassment flare in my stomach. If this was all meant to humiliate me, it was working, and I hated it. I couldn't stop the defiance I felt towards him, towards this all, but I knew I had to push it down.

Even if I could run, where would I go? There was no way out except for the pair of doors I couldn't open.

"And take off that bloody hat while you're at it, too. It isn't serving any purpose, even for amusement."

As calmly as I could manage, I took of Lestrade's cap and dropped it to the floor. I was still fearful under the manic stare, but my own stubbornness and fury began to complicate any sense I had left in me.

I yanked up the pant leg, almost making a show of it despite everything. I had to appear calm. I couldn't afford to let him manipulate me so easily. I had to retain some control back.

As my fingers jerked the leather bindings through the clasps, I glared back at him. Yet, as each strap came undone, I could feel my resolve breaking. I couldn't stand without this, much less walk or run if I had to. I was leaving myself totally vulnerable to whatever Sherlock came up with next.

My only defense was to play this game and hope I didn't lose everything.

The brace fell to the floor with a clang and I hopped back against the wall, pushing myself up to stand on both feet. My knee was already shaking.

"Now that I have your full, undivided attention we can begin," his tone was sinister and rumbled like thunder.

I swallowed. "What are you going to do to me?"

His rumbling laugh echoed in the giant cement block we stood in. It was joyless and dry. "I should be the one asking you."

I blanked.

He took another step. His bare foot quiet in comparison to the scrape of his slipper. "_You're_ the one that brought you here. You've come of your own accord. You tried a pass at a pathetic attempt to bluff your way in through some foolish scheme, and you think it _worked_." He snickered at that last part.

"I should hope it has crossed your mind that the only reason you got away with it was because I let you. So tell me, doctor. Why did you come here if you were so quick to leave?"

"I wanted…" my voice failed me. I couldn't bear to look at him any longer. "I wanted to talk to you."

"No. You didn't."

The air turned cold and I felt my control slipping away from me.

Sherlock stalked forward. "Why are you lying, John?"

My name sounded venomous as his looming figure came closer and closer. I tried to move away and only succeeded in losing my footing as another lance of pain ripped through my leg. I jammed my foot into the ground and stopped my descent, shoving myself into the corner and wishing I could just disappear.

"I-I'm not!"

"Stop _lying!_" He hissed. The brace screeched across the floor as he kicked it aside with a single blow.

"I'm not bloody lying!" I screamed as he closed in and crouched until he was eye level. His arms acted like fences, attaching themselves to the wall on either side of me and barricading me in.

"Anyone can see that you are. Look into a mirror, John, and see the despicable thing you are. You're not only lying, you're living a lie. You wake up still believing in the past, dwelling on it, stirring it up. You surround yourself with objects, _things_ that reassure you that you're doing the right thing. Echoes from a day long since gone.

"You're mind is filled, _infected _with lies. And you spread them like viruses to anybody that will listen, and once they've figured out that you're just as much a fraud as the things you tell them they stop listening. But when it comes for them to open your eyes, it is _you_ that refuses to listen. You still can't bear to see the truth, even when you are utterly, laughably alone. You won't see it in the pity of another's gaze. You won't acknowledge it in the emptiness of your life. You won't recognize it when it's looking you in the eyes at this very moment.

"No…" his ice-cold eyes leered at me with disgust. "You didn't come here to talk. You came here to torment me."

I shook my head, tears slipping down my face. "No."

"Don't deny it. You came here to tell me that the lies have all been mine. That I _am_ Sherlock Holmes, the world's first consulting detective. That everything that has happened to you has been my fault."

"No!" I cried, but part of me was terrified that that wasn't entirely true. Hadn't I come here to tell him who I believed he was? That I would never stop believing?

That he _was_ Sherlock Holmes?

"I can see the conflict in your eyes. You know you're just spewing words out but they mean _nothing._"

"No, Sherlock, please believe me-"

"No, _I _believe in truths. I believe that you are just realizing that this was all a mistake. A terrible, _terrible_ mistake. I believe you can't stand to be this close to me because you're finally seeing me for what I truly am."

My stomach tipped with a sudden sick twist, like a switch had been flipped and made my skin burn and my muscles tense. His words were infectious and I could hear the voice in my head scream that the man before me was nothing but a stranger with dark intentions.

"You can't run. You can't hide from me. There is no where on this Earth that you can go to that will save you from this reality, John."

"Please, stop this," my body racked with the onslaught of sobs I was desperately fighting.

"Look at me."

I could feel my legs tremble.

"Look at the face of truth."

He laughed again. Something sick and terrible. Something so nonchalant, it seemed detached from him entirely. Like a skip in the disc.

And then I realized, that was all he was. Fragments. Parts of Sherlock, but not all the right ones. Parts, like his arms that should be at his sides-but they weren't. He should be standing up straight, but he wasn't. His eyes should be kinder, or at least impassive. Yet they were cold, hard orbs that contained nothing behind the facade but a shining insanity that corrupted his smile, turning it into something malicious and strange.

"Do you see it?" His voice hardly sounded the same. "Do you still see a friend?"

I looked away as he leaned even closer, a stale musk burning in my nose. I could feel his anger smoldering in his chest. Then he growled.

I felt long, skinny fingers dig into my scalp and I cried out in discomfort as he pulled my head back and caught my horrified expression.

"Answer me!" his hot stinking breath gusted across my face. I couldn't breathe.

"I don't know!" I frantically gushed out. What was I supposed to say? Sherlock was, will always be, my friend. But the man I saw before my eyes, I didn't know what he was.

"'Come along, John! The game is afoot!'" he said the words in perfect impersonation, giggling hysterically at the terror contorting my countenance.

"Shall we solve a mystery then?" his voice was mocking, but I still was unable to tell if he was serious or not.

His fingers remained where they were, tearing into my scalp. His other hand moved up to his own forehead where he began to unwrap the gauze.

I was caught between the pain searing into my head and in my leg as my knees began to buckle. I was losing strength and had to use my hands to help hold me up as Sherlock continued to undress his wound.

"Why did I do this?" He jabbed a finger to his stitches, blood caking onto the tip.

"You...you fell-"

"Wrong. I jumped. And I didn't ask how, I asked _why_."

I was shocked into silence. I couldn't find words. I couldn't find my voice. My eyes couldn't decide whether to linger on the red stain of Sherlock's gash or the depraved stare he bore into me unendingly.

I didn't want to answer. I didn't want any of this. I didn't want this. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

I yelped as his hand slammed hard against the wall next to my head. "Time is wasting, _doctor_!" Spit flecked across my face.

"I-I don't know!"

"Wrong!" His hand slammed against the wall again, this time fisted. His knuckles started to scrape raw and bleed.

"Sherlock-"

"Wrong again!"

I flinched my head to the side as the fist connected to the cement closer than before.

Blood was pounding in my ears and I couldn't stop shaking. "I don't know! You jumped!"

"Wrong!" he bellowed like a wild man. He was so close, I felt like I couldn't breathe.

"You jumped! I don't know why, Sherlock! Why did you jump? _Why!?_" I screamed at the top of my lungs, the sheer amount of force grating my throat and squeezing more tears from my bloodshot eyes.

"Why did you jump? No explanations, no signs!" My voice cracked and each word felt as if it etched itself into my larynx but I couldn't stop. Everything I had wanted to scream at his tombstone, at his distant form on the rooftop. Everything came spilling out.

"I thought I was your friend, Sherlock! I thought that I was the one person you could always depend on, the one you could always talk to! I thought we understood each other," I was running out of breath but I still could not stop myself. "Why didn't you tell me? I could have helped you! _I could have helped_! Why did you do it? Why did you leave me!"

"Shush." Sherlock's eyes panned to the back of his bashed hand. He suddenly seemed disinterested in interrogating me any further. I didn't know whether to feel relieved or anxious for what else was in store for me. Yet, I didn't dare distract him with a single word. A single twitch. Not even a breath.

He flipped his hand over and I could see with immense clarity the damage he had inflicted upon himself.

Each knuckle was torn. The skin was shredded to pieces and blood trickled out to form a single stream of scarlet. His hand looked frail and skeletal and I wondered if I wiped the blood aside if I could see his bones.

He watched the blood travel along his skin with morbid fascination. There did not appear to be pain in his eyes, not even when he released my hair from his iron grip and used that hand to jab at the open wounds.

He grinned at his blood-dipped finger tip.

"I'll tell you why," he continued eerily, not even giving me a glance as he watched his finger move slowly out towards me.

I was frozen in place, but my eyes were watching only him. The way his eyebrows knitted together in the faintest degree as his concentration mounted into absolute focus. The way the corner of his lips twitched and his eyes twinkled when success what right at his fingertips-

Cold and slippery. My forehead was swathed in something akin to that. The feeling increased as his finger dragged its way down between my upturned brows to the tip of my nose. Then I could _smell_ it.

The scent of iron.

My stomach churned and I could taste the bile rising.

Sherlock's attention did not break as he continued to dab more fingers into his own blood.

"Sherlock, stop," I breathed through my nose, trying to control the nausea that began to coat my forehead in a sheen of sweat. No more. Please, _god_, no more.

He shushed me with a calmness I found disturbing. "I haven't told you why yet."

"Then just tell me!" I snapped as his blood-covered hand returned once again.

"Oh, but that would ruin the surprise."

With that, he scraped his hand across my face. Fingers drew over my eyes, my mouth, and down my neck. I could taste the bitter metal.

I opened my eyes and was revolted at the way the lids stuck to my skin. He was looking back at me, nodding in approval and letting the blood continue to seep out of his flesh.

"Ask me why."

I couldn't remove the taste of his blood from my mouth and I felt as if I were going to pass out at any moment. My voice was a whisper. "Why?"

"For the fun of it."

My knees gave way and my body collapsed to the ground. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't feel the cold, hard floor beneath me. Nothing, but the overpowering pressure in my chest as I felt all the air escape me and my powerlessness to recover any of it. I was suffocating. My heart felt as if it were tearing through my bones and skin, growing with every uncontainable beat until it filled every inch of me with its relentless, ceaseless hammering.

My vision was going. With every gasp for air I tried to make I felt my energy fading. It was as if the life was literally being sucked from my veins.

I wondered for a moment if I was going to die. I couldn't breathe. I was going to black out. There was no one to save me but myself, and I was pondering if it was even worth it.

As I blinked my eyes and saw the stars in blinding dots on the dusty, grimy cement floor, I heard him. Howling with laughter. His footsteps were dull in my head, but I could see his feet dancing around my collapsed form. He was just watching me.

Silent tears crept out from my closing eyes and I begged for the voice of reason. The voice that had helped me before. The voice that had been my companion for these long months. His voice.

I wanted him to tell me to breathe. Just keep breathing.

To tell me it was going to be alright. That this would pass.

I longed for any memory of my friend. Of Sherlock.

I tried to picture his face. His cocky smile. The roll of his eyes when I said something too obvious.

I tried.

I really did.

All I can picture, is a broken thing. A cracked reflection in the mirror that holds no semblance of what it should.

I can see eyes. They're pale and blue like they should be, but I see no familiarity within. I see someone else, _something_ else, beneath Sherlock's skin screeching out at me with what was once his voice.

I twisted my body away when I felt skinny fingers press into my shoulder.

"Close your eyes, John."

I shuddered at the sound of my name uttered from his lips.

"Close your eyes." he repeated, his voice much lower, like this hiss of a snake. His breath swirled in my ear and I could feel the tip of his nose graze against my scalp.

So I closed my eyes.

I concentrated on the ache of my lungs and the weight in my chest. I could still taste his blood and feel it drip down my face, mixing with my tears. I could feel it all. All of it going away.

"And when I tell you to open them," I felt his face turn away for a moment before the sound of an electric lock deactivating brought him back.

Skin slipped across my hair in a sudden twitch. A grin.

"_Run_."

My heart stopped.

"Look alive, John," he rose to his feet. Panic started to overtake me. "Open them."

The doors flew open and guards filed in. I staggered to my feet, hopping back and watching him beam with pure, sadistic joy.

I did not linger. There was no point.

Someone grabbed my arm and I saw the expensive suit before the contemptuous sneer under that distinguished nose.

"I assure you," Mycroft dragged me back. "You will never set foot here again."

"Don't worry," I rasped. The last thing I saw of that man was his toothy grin paired with those gleaming eyes.

A tear rolled off my cheek and stained the collar of my shirt. It was red.

"I have no reason to come back."

He was gone.

* * *

**AN: It has been a long time since I have updated and I apologize for the delay! Hopefully this chapter makes up for it.**

**Characters are owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC Sherlock's modern adaptation.**

**The pain I cause them is inflicted by me, unfortunately. **

**Enjoy! **

**-CJ&amp;J**


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